


Oathbreaker

by quandary



Series: In Distance We're Losing [3]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, F/F, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route Spoilers, Gen, Minor canon divergence, Non-Binary Byleth, Post-Time Skip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2020-10-21 11:55:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20693120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quandary/pseuds/quandary
Summary: “Tell me, Ingrid: you forsake your vows to your liege, but in return for what?” She asked.“Mercy.” Ingrid replied. “Mercy for my people.” They were suffering, and there seemed to her no other option than this.“You would turn your back on your King for this?”“I would, Your Majesty.” A little bit of her died then; the truth is a bitter pill to swallow. It was either that, or die defending a land of rocks and ice and moss, a land with no warmth or succor left to give.





	1. All Was Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> edit as of 12/11/19:  
for those of you finding this in the dorothea/ingrid tag, i am obligated to let you know the romance is not the focus of this work though it is very much a theme! 
> 
> huge shout out to my friend megan for reading this and offering advice and feedback and no small amount of ego stroking. this is a little bit of a pet project of mine that i hope others will find amusing, interesting, or the very least, fun to read in some regard. i had fun coming up with this fic and its contents, and i enjoy ingrid as a character, flaws and all.
> 
> a sequel to my earlier work, Of Lavender. it will provide some context and background info. i will be adding more characters and relationships as i add chapters. for the sake of not spoiling everything, i have plans for eventual wlw content.

Moonlight illuminated the dirt road ahead of Ingrid, Loog, her dappled mare, tearing down the path at a gallop. She had been riding for almost three days, stopping only to give her horse a short rest, and drink from rivers or dirty puddles (she drank from them too). The rations of bread and hard cheese she brought with her ran out yesterday, her waterskin had grown empty half-way through the second day’s ride.

Exhaustion chased them both, but she could not stop. She had to reach Garreg Mach Monastery before it was too late, before Edelgard pointed her finger at Charon and Galatea County and marched north. The Leicester Alliance was nothing more than a memory now, with their recent victory at the Bridge of Myrddin. The Adrestian Empire was swallowing Fódlan whole.

The monastery's pointed towers stabbed the horizon. Tall pines and even taller mountains penned them in like a prison, the road winding for what seemed like forever. She dug her heels in Loog's heaving flanks. Her heavy breathing matched that of her horse's, the sound of it filling her ears. The gallop Loog was at couldn’t be maintained for much longer. A couple strides more, and they'd be fifty feet away. She was sure of it. 

Maybe she should have stopped hours ago, to catch a few moments of sleep, but Ingrid knew they were almost there. Adrenaline fueled her now where strength had left yesterday. 

Garreg Mach loomed in front of her, impossibly tall. Ingrid wanted to fall asleep right there, in the saddle. Loog's heavy breathing came out of her nose in great clouds of mist. Ingrid could hear faint sounds coming from the watchtowers, no doubt the guards roused from their sneaky naps.

She went to slide off the saddle, but the foot of her bad leg got stuck in the stirrup, twisting her leg awkwardly and making her clatter to the muddy ground unceremoniously. Ingrid cried out on her way down, felt a fool for it and cursed the way her leg jolted with pain.

The gates groaned--cracking open by inches--and Ingrid gathered herself off the dirt with difficulty. Exhaustion wanted to pull her back down; she was famished, in need of a drink (preferably a stiff one). Three horrid, long days of next to non-stop riding had Ingrid too stiff, and too tired to dismount Loog with any amount of grace.

Torch light pooled out of the widening gates, tossing warm orange tones over everything. A head of light green hair popped out, followed by a pair of sensible boots. There was no mistaking that thousand yard stare, the expressionless face. So the rumours were true: Byleth still lived, and had become Edelgard's second lap dog. 

"Ingrid." Not a question, just a statement of fact. Their voice was close to a monotone, without warmth or emotion, and enough to send a shiver down Ingrid's spine. She wouldn't put it past Hubert to have worked vile magic to resurrect them, then again they were always rather dead inside.

"I seek an audience with Emperor Edelgard." Ingrid hung on to Loog's reins, afraid that if she let go she'd collapse. Despite herself, her breath came in sharp rasps. Byleth blinked, inclined their head, weighing their options silently. A cloak covered most of their body, save for the arm holding the torch. It gave them the appearance of a disembodied head, floating in the gloom. 

"This late at night?" They murmured, stepping closer to Loog and Ingrid. "You look rather tired." Another statement of fact. Another blink. Suddenly, Byleth turned, motioned to someone stuck in the dark beyond the gates. A watchman, probably. 

"Feed and dress down her horse, please." Their attention was turned to the guard stepping into the light, something Ingrid was thankful for. Those luminous green eyes of theirs tore right through her, made her feel bare.

The guard took Loog’s reins from Ingrid’s stiff hands. Then Byleth crossed over to her, no more distance between them now. Ingrid could see them more clearly. Time hadn’t touched them in those long five years. Their hair was longer, certainly, almost down past their shoulders.

“I can only imagine what brings you here,” They spoke softly, quietly, eyes searching her face. Ingrid did her best not to flinch or look away under the scrutiny. 

“Desperation.” She said simply. They nodded as if they expected this answer.

“I’d offer you my arm, but it’s holding the torch.”

Ingrid shook her head. “I can walk, thank you.” 

“Very well. And the stairs?” Their eyes swung from her face to her leg and back again. It had her bristling, but now wasn’t the time for pride. She swallowed it down. Byleth must have seen her tip ass over tea kettle from the watchtower.

“Lead the way,” she said between gritted teeth. Byleth said no more, turning back towards the monastery. Their quiet voice breaking the gloom, no doubt telling the remaining guards to start shutting the gates.

“My audience?” Ingrid reminded them.

“Yes. I will see to it at first light. Right now, you should rest.” Byleth tossed a quick look over their shoulder. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you look unwell.”

Subsisting on watered down fish soup for months would do that. Galatea County had entered another famine, one to rival that of fifteen years ago. Relief from Fhirdiad had trickled to a near-halt once the Bridge of Myrrdin was captured, leaving her people in a terrible position. She could not watch them suffer any longer.

The two of them made their way through the gates, a low groan signalling the shutting of them. The marketplace was now abandoned, empty stalls lining what was once a lively place. Now, it was deathly quiet, as the rest of the monastery surely was.

Garreg Mach seemed so different in the dark, sinister almost. The ruins and rubble didn't help matters. Clean up after Edelgard’s coup apparently hadn't made very many strides in the year since, perhaps lower on her list of priorities where domination and destruction reigned higher. She remembered that battle with a bitter taste in her mouth: the day the Empire attacked the monastery and against all odds, took it from the hands of the Church of Serios, forcing both the church and the Kingdom to retreat beyond Faerghus borders. Rhea had even become a dragon, a beast of immaculate white scales and wings that blotted the sun out. But even that was no match for the guerilla tactics and sheer determination of Adrestia and her people.

Torches lined the pathway at intervals. Garreg Mach had become every bit the garrison she expected it to be, ruins notwithstanding. All was quiet, with only the sound of their boots on the stone pathway echoing around them. It was disconcerting, and lonely, with Byleth remaining steadfastly silent. Guards, if there were any beyond the gates (surely there were), were not by the old dormitories, or the kitchens and dining hall.

The two of them stopped in front of a door oddly familiar to Ingrid. Her old dorm room. Byleth handed Ingrid the torch wordlessly (goddess, did they ever say anything to fill the quiet?). Ingrid held onto the torch, the warmth oozing over her arm, rough wood of the shaft biting into her palm. Byleth fumbled with a keyring, found the one they wanted and eased the door open. Were the dormitories lying here, moldering away? Ingrid wanted to ask, but Byleth turned their thousand-yard stare onto her.

“Here.” They said, gesturing with their hand inside the dark room. (Slowly, it dawned on Ingrid how they never used their right arm for anything.)

“Do all the old dorms lie unused?” Ingrid followed them inside, watched with fascination as Byleth coaxed a flame to life in their palm, and lit an old candle resting on her desk. The flame winked, casting tall shadows in the corners. Despite the shuttered window, the room smelled of dust and general disuse. 

“Not all, no.” They murmured, snuffing the flame in their palm with, Ingrid assumed, only a stray thought. They weren’t able to do that when they were teaching at Garreg Mach. “Rest. I will get you food and water.” Byleth took the torch from Ingrid’s hand, and left her.

There wasn’t one spot on her body that didn’t hurt or otherwise ache. She sank onto the edge of the bed, letting the weight of her exhaustion settle over her shoulders entirely now. There was no more need to hide it, to stand when her legs screamed at her to sit.

Byleth returned some time later with a tray awkwardly cradled against their hip. Just beyond their shoulder, Ingrid saw a bulkier shape--no doubt armor--shuffle. 

“I see you brought company.” Ingrid noted dryly. They shrugged, even though their back was to Ingrid, setting the tray on the desk. An offering of water, and bread. Food fit for a prisoner.

“Protocol.” Byleth said. “I’ll send for you in the morning. Rest.” Ingrid watched them slink out of the room, shutting the door behind them with a weird sense of finality. 

Piece by piece, she removed her armour and set it aside, shoved it all underneath the bed. It was dirty and in need of repair, and frankly, she’d rather face Edelgard in the plain breeches and linen shirt she wore underneath. That, at least, wasn’t covered in mud.

She could not sleep. Ingrid didn't bother trying, not with the way her mind turned. She lay on her old bed, watching the moonlight travel across her ceiling through the slats of the window. The mattress was a strange, comfortable thing to be laying on. She had grown used to the hard ground during the hellish ride here.

Of course they'd shove her here, in her old dorm room. Byleth thought they were doing Ingrid a favour. She couldn't even leave to wander the grounds--a guard had been posted outside her door. As if she had the energy to escape. In a small act of defiance, she locked the door. They would need to knock if they wanted her. 

The sun began to break the oppressive darkness of the night. She could tell by the colour of the shadows changing from indigo to a brighter, lighter shade of blue, the way the room began to heat up. Morning had come, and soon she'd be escorted to Edelgard.

The thought had her stomach clenching. Ingrid swung her feet over the edge of the mattress and sat staring at nothing in particular. The speech she had prepared on her way here all but evaporated. What difference would it have made? She began convincing herself Edelgard would ignore her pleas, especially if Hubert was there. Goddess knows what horrid things he'd whisper to her from the shadows.

Ingrid's distaste for the man only grew over the years. He was a shade away from cruel, and no better than a sinister proctor of torture in her eyes. 

Finally, the door knob rattled, followed by a particularly hard knock (it brought a smile to her lips). Ingrid rose, and opened the door, expecting Byleth but getting an armoured nobody. The disappointment was hard to hide.

"You're request by the Emperor, my lad--ah, I mean--" He stammered, unsure of how to address her. She was, in that moment, a prisoner in his eyes. Someone to be dragged before his Emperor for a sentence. Ingrid spared him.

"Just take me to her." 

The audience chamber was as Ingrid remembered back during her academy days. Except it wasn’t Rhea who stood at the end of that long hallway, flanked by Seteth, it was Edelgard with her twin shadows. Byleth on the right, Hubert on the left.

The only sound in that horrible chamber was the click of her boots, the clatter of the escort’s armour. Edelgard watched the silent procession with an impassive look on her face, jaw set and eyes hard as stone.

Ingrid’s heart hammered in her chest, and her blood rushed in her ears. She fought the urge to wipe her palms on the fabric of her pants; no doubt that’d be uncouth, unknightly. She was stopped ten paces from the Emperor, resplendent in her blood red armour. The sun shone through the stained glass that stretched to the ceiling, giving Edelgard a halo. Her white hair looked almost gold in the sunlight burning through the glass. The dragon-horn crown gleamed.

The guard beside her saluted, and rattled off, “You stand before her Majesty, Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg.” Ingrid did not move, did not bow or kneel or otherwise scrape before her. A weird expression flitted across Hubert’s lean face, as if offended upon his Majesty’s behalf. Edelgard and Byleth watched her watching them.

A beat of silence, and then, “Ingrid Brandl Galatea.” Edelgard’s voice boomed in that chamber, filled the space with her vibrato. “Knight of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, and Countess of Galatea.”

Violet eyes found hers, and she couldn’t bring herself to look away, found she was rooted to the spot. Swallowing thickly, Ingrid gave a stiff nod. 

“Yes, that is I.”

“What brings you here, all the way to my base of operations?” Edelgard took two steps forward, hand resting on the hilt of her axe slung at her waist. All the while, Byleth and Hubert watched, said nothing, did nothing. Shadows and lapdogs, indeed. “I must admit, I admire your… fortitude.” Edelgard doesn’t need to point out the obvious: that they are, for all intents and purposes, enemies. 

Byleth seeks out Ingrid, gives a faint nod. Hubert just sneers. He knows there is nothing she, nor her people, can offer the Adrestian Empire. She barely has fighters left, no gold or weapons to give.

“I…” Ingrid can’t bring herself to say it, that she’s come to beg for mercy and her desperation drove her here, to the sworn enemy of her King. The mere act of doing so is treason. She can never return. Either she will be kept prisoner, or word will reach Dimitri and he will have her head. “I see the trajectory of your march.”

“Oh?”

“And--and I know it’s only a matter of time before you march on Galatea. My home.”

“Maybe so.” Edelgard tensed ever so slightly, eyes never leaving Ingrid. 

“So I’ve come here to ask you to reconsider. Please, Your Majesty.” It pained her to say those words, they burned her throat like so much acid. 

“Reconsider? Reconsider what? Our countries are at war, Ingrid.” The bite in Edelgard’s voice was unmistakable.

“I’m asking you for mercy.” She returned steel for steel. Should she kneel now? Should she kiss the hand that would otherwise strike her down? “Would you have me beg you?” 

The tension released from Edelgard’s shoulders, and she had, for a moment, looked abashed, looked liked the girl from a half-decade ago. Then Hubert leaned forward, the pallid beetle of a man whispering something into her ear. The Emperor’s face drew stone-cold once more, appraised Ingrid like she would a prize sow. Whatever it was didn't curry favour.

“Tell me, Ingrid: you forsake your vows to your liege, but in return for what?” She asked.

“Mercy.” Ingrid replied. “Mercy for my people.” They were suffering, and there seemed to her no other option than this.

“You would turn your back on your King for this?”

“I would, Your Majesty.” A little bit of her died then; the truth is a bitter pill to swallow. It was either that, or die defending a land of rocks and ice and moss, a land with no warmth or succor left to give.

Byleth drew a sword hanging at their waist with their left hand, their half-cape parting to expose a stump where their right arm would have been, and passed it to Edelgard. Ingrid took an involuntary step back, expecting to be cut down and executed right there on the spot. In two quick strides, Edelgard closed the distance between them, mouth a grim line. Very well, she would face her death with courage. 

“You need only kneel.” Edelgard said briskly. “Kneel, and you’ll rise a knight of the Adrestian Empire.”

Ingrid balked for a moment, and slowly, awkwardly, got to her knees. She studied Edelgard’s pointed sabatons, mind roiling like an unsettled sea. She always thought it'd be harder than this to turn her back on Faerghus, on her father, on Dimitri. But she had no choice. Dying a senseless death defending a land of hard dirt didn't seem just; there was no honour in it. Yet, there was no honour to be had in treason, either. Tears stung the back of her eyes. She was glad she still knelt at Edelgard's feet, ashamed of her emotion, of herself and what she found herself doing. She wanted to vomit.

The edge of the blade kissed the side of her neck, then the other. She shivered at the touch of the cold metal upon her skin, aware that all Edelgard had to do was apply a little more pressure...

"Rise, Ingrid Galatea." Edelgard said. "I anoint you a knight of the Adrestian Empire. You shall forsake all other titles and lands bestowed upon you by the Kingdom, and King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd. Your lands are now the Empire’s, your people subjects of Adrestia." The price to pay for salvation. 

No doubt she'd send a retainer there to rule over the county, to raise the banner of the Empire where the Kingdom flags were. Her father would sooner spear himself with a sword than accept Empire rule. No longer would he call her daughter, not with her running to the Empire like a coward, handing over their land with a bow and a smile. Turning her back on her family and her duty to bring them out of poverty shouldn’t have been so easy.

Ingrid clambered back to her feet, hiding her wincing. She stared long and hard at the Emperor. 

"I will treat your people like they are mine, you have my word." Edelgard swore. Ingrid almost wanted to believe her. She might have, in another time. Did she know the famine ravaging Galatea County? Would she have granted her knighthood in return for the county if she knew?

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Ingrid forced her tongue to move, to spit the words out. 

Then Edelgard nodded to the escort. "Return her to her room." 

The escort placed a hand upon her elbow. She did not fight him, glad to be rid of Edelgard and out of the audience chamber. Behind her, low voices erupted in a hushed discussion. She could barely make out Edelgard barking, “Enough!” before the doors shut closed behind them.

So it was done. Ingrid threw away her dignity and honour, her family and duty, and all she had to do was kneel at the feet of the woman who would have taken that all away regardless. A cavern grew inside of Ingrid’s chest, a horrible and empty pit of despair. 

Daybreak painted the sky in a riot of colours, with reds oozing into oranges melting into yellows. Ingrid saw none of it, studied only the cracked pathway to her room. The guard said nothing to her, and she nothing to him, lost in her thoughts as she was.

She slipped back into her room, and waited.


	2. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ingrid adjusts to the growing pains of her new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another shout out to my friend-turned-beta megan for her enduring patience as i continue to yell and squeal about this fic. i have a lot of Personal Things (tm) happening next month, but i promise your patience will be rewarded. :)
> 
> i took some liberties with armour, this time around. oh well.
> 
> if y'all wanna chat me up, find me on twitter @verytinysammy. i post updates on chapter progress there.

After what Ingrid can only assume was a lengthy three hour debate weighing the pros and cons of her service, she was given leave to do what any Knight of the Empire can do: leave their bedroom at will, to walk about Garreg Mach without supervision. 

Of course, that would not stop Hubert from sending his many spectres to do just that. As if the unofficial spymaster would let a “kingdom defector” move about his Majesty’s domain without close watch; for all they knew she was a mole for Dimitri, with the famine a convenient excuse.

Byleth broke the news to her in the early afternoon, even invited her to lunch in the dining hall. For reasons she was still trying to parse, she said yes. No one bothered either of them, but the looks tossed their way did little to make her feel welcome. (Ingrid began to notice people kept clear of Byleth, or did their best to limit interaction.)

They sat down at the far end of the hall, an entire table to themselves, to a meal of--hilariously enough--Daphnel stew. Ingrid made sure she ate slowly, in measured spoonfuls. It had been too long since she’d had actual food that wasn’t some variation of soup, or fish, or fish soup. She wanted seconds. Byleth was pleasant enough company. There was nothing to talk about, so they didn’t.

The quiet gave her time for introspection, for better or for worse. She noticed Byleth opted for sensible clothing: a loose fitted cotton shirt, with a collar that laced at the neck--left undone--and simple canvas trousers that cinched at the ankle. No more patterned tights or shirts that teased cleavage.

"I have a favour to ask of you." Ingrid said into the comfortable silence. 

There were a couple things on her mind: namely clothes, a bath in water that wasn’t from a stream or puddle, stationary. Writing to Mercedes had wandered into her mind since she left the audience chamber and wouldn’t leave. Those letters were the only thing keeping the gaping chasm in her chest from swallowing her whole, like it did when Glenn died. There was no tether then to keep her grounded. She didn’t want to eat or be awake, much less leave her room. At least with the letters she had something to look forward to, amid the tiredness and hunger that became a hallmark of her time as Countess. Even in Garreg Mach, it was a tiny ray of hope.

"Name it." Byleth dropped their spoon into their bowl with a faint clatter, gave Ingrid an almost invisible smile. "I'll see what I can do." The near-eagerness tinging their voice had Ingrid pause. She remembered herself, shook her head. The imagination was a strong thing.

"I suppose given my position here, it is a bit of an imposition... but I would like stationary." Whether or not she'd be allowed to send letters was another matter. Byleth had the same thought, she could see it in their eyes, the way their full lips parted.

"Gathering the materials won't be an issue, but it's allowing you use of the rookery that is." Byleth crossed their arm over their chest, hand tugging at the half-cape. "Though in time, perhaps..."

When she's earned the trust of Edelgard and Hubert, they mean. When they can be certain she won't go selling Imperial secrets and proving Hubert right. She expected the answer, but the disappointment remained all the same.

"Then just the materials would be fine. Writing would give me peace of mind." Ingrid kept her voice as level as she could, kept the imploring tone she feared would break through under wraps. 

“You’ll have it.” 

Ingrid didn’t bother hiding the smile pulling at her lips. She gathered their bowls, and thanked Byleth before wandering off.

Late afternoon sunlight filled Ingrid's room. It reeked less of dust, and smelled more like someone living in it. The flowers she gathered from the greenhouse helped some, too. Made the place look a little more friendly.

They joined her sitting at the desk, as she wrote a letter she couldn’t send. Mercedes, if the last letter she received from her was anything to go by, remained in the village of Cairbre just outside of Magdred Way. She had hopes to travel to the ruins of the Leicester Alliance despite Ingrid’s pleas to stay in safer country. When Ingrid ran out of things to say, she grew listless, found herself back in the greenhouse.

Soil, dark and heady, covered Ingrid's hands. The greenhouse was blessedly empty and blessedly quiet. No one minded if she worked there, kept herself occupied and busy. Growing up in a land that would give you nothing had trained Ingrid to make do with little; she can coax life from the most stubborn offerings and buds.

She could do without the near-suffocating warmth, used to the chill of Faerghus as she is, but Ingrid soldiers on. To the left of her, she grabbed a bulb, dropped it into the hole she dug with her fingers. Footsteps sound behind her, familiar and soft. 

"Dorothea and Sylvain will be pleased to see you." Byleth mentions, as casually as someone like them can. Not what she was expecting them to open with. Dorothea and Sylvain have been away on a mission of some sort (one which Ingrid, naturally, could not know the details of). If the gossip she has heard holds true, they've been tasked with quelling revolts in the former Alliance territory, mostly from irate lords who refused to buckle under Empire reign.

Ingrid nodded, not knowing what to say. She expected them to find her for a completely different matter, not this. Something more… official, anyway. Picturing Byleth seeking her out simply for conversation was close to impossible.

"I admit, a part of me was looking forward to seeing friendly faces," Ingrid prepared another depression in the soil, grabbed another bulb. "But as it stands, I'm not sure I can handle seeing Sylvain right now." His betrayal hurt her deeply, and forgiving him is something she's been working on for five years now. Understanding why he joined Edelgard's cause is one thing, but accepting it was an entirely different matter.

Byleth hovered in her periphery, silent as a ghost.

"I've been meaning to thank you again for the stationary, Byleth." Ingrid assumed that's what they were waiting for, but they remain. She pestered them for it, wanting to write Mercedes. Or, pretend to. Ingrid dusted her hands free of the dirt, climbed to her feet to face Byleth fully. They looked as if considering something. So was she.

"If you're going to stand there, I have a question for you."

They nod, acquiescing. "The arm, no? I've seen you staring. Well, not at it--it's no longer there--but where it would be."

Was that a joke? Ingrid was too horrified to ask. Heat raced up the back of her neck, and she wanted to crawl into the dirt and hide there forever.

"I'm so sorry, I wasn't--I didn't--" There she was, bumbling like a fool. Surely, she wasn't that thoughtless, that careless. 

"I jest." A hand upon her arm, and a facsimile of a smile. The whisper of a smile disappeared as fast as it came. "I lost my arm four months ago, during the battle of Myrddin." Byleth's face spasmed, as if it wasn’t used to such displays of emotion. Their brows drew together, and for once, they looked anywhere but her.

"Edelgard hasn't forgiven me, but it was either my arm or her life. I made my choice." Their soft voice dropped to a whisper with something like shame colouring it.

“You must really champion her cause to give so much of yourself.” Ingrid murmured. It made her mind wander to Glenn, who had done the same for his king, and would do it again if he could. The most loyal and steadfast were, as she was beginning to learn, close to suicidal. Byleth slid their eyes from the floor, to her. Once more she was laid bare for them, and she shivered despite the warmth of the greenhouse. Those luminous green eyes held her.

“To be honest, sometimes it feels like I am just here to mitigate the damage.” They looked almost sad. She almost wanted to reach out and comfort them, but how do you comfort someone so unused to such things? 

_I know how you feel,_ she wanted to say. “Oh.” Is what she said instead. Mitigating the damage is the reason why she left with little but Loog and the clothes on her back. Mitigating the damage is what she sold her honour for. Of course she could relate.

The conversation petered out awkwardly, with Byleth standing there looking incredibly tired and incredibly ancient in equal measure. Even when they were a professor, they never seemed entirely human. Now, more than ever, did that ring true. The eerily light green eyes and hair didn’t help matters.

“Anyway, that’s not why I sought you out.” Byleth cleared their throat, the moment gone. “Edelgard has need of you.”

“I’m sure she does.”

“Truly. You know the Kingdom best, no?” Byleth soldiered on despite the dripping sarcasm. (Sarcasm had never been a tenant of Ingrid’s personality, but in later years it hung around like an unwanted guest.) “Sylvain might have been with us since the start of this war, but his knowledge is five years old. You, on the other hand…”

She, on the other hand, can practically escort them directly to Fhirdiad and Dimitri. It made perfect sense. Her complicity in providing the information had been implied the moment she got on her knees.

“You might know who leads what army, where storehouses are--”

“You presume too much, Byleth.” Ingrid spat out, interrupting them. An indecipherable expression flashed across Byleth’s face--she might as well have struck them--hand raised as if they meant to reach out and touch her. It dropped back to their side. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but the Galatea family was never influential. We are poor. We are without sway, or even opinion in the matters of the court, much less the military.” The Galateas were nobility in name only, and it hurt to have to spell it all out for them. 

“I suppose your friendship with Dimitri didn’t help?” Byleth must have assumed she was some trusted confidante, someone Dimitri told priceless information to. If she was, that was years gone. Ingrid grew up with Sylvain, Dimitri and Felix, but the boys she knew then were men she couldn’t recognize now. All of them wandered down paths she could not follow.

“How would it have? The boy I grew up with is gone.” He died three years ago, replaced by a paranoid man who barely trusted his vassal, Dedue. A paranoid man who yelled and screamed at shadows and people only he could see; who would sob in the wee hours of the night, when he thought he was alone. The Kingdom of Faerghus was doing a wonderful job of rotting from the inside out, nevermind the exacerbation Edelgard’s war brought. 

“Then I apologize—” Byleth began.

“Forget it.” For the second time, Ingrid cut them off. It didn’t feel good. If anything, she should be apologizing for being so surly. Byleth had been nothing but kind to her, and she’s been short with them almost every time they talked. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she sighed. “When am I to see her?” Adding _Majesty _to the end of her question was something she couldn’t bring herself to do.

“Why, now. I can take you to her.” They said, as if Ingrid should have known.

_Oh._ That was unexpected.

Ingrid glanced down at her dirty hands, the smudge on her linen shirt, the scuffed knees of her breeches. With alarm, she realised she was in no state to see even the chamberlain. Then again, why should she care? No, Edelgard would take her as is.

“Lead the way.” She said, foolishly bold.

Byleth turned on their heel and exited the greenhouse, not stopping to see if Ingrid followed after. They did not enter the audience chamber as Ingrid thought they would. Instead, they walked past it, and into a hallway lined by two doors. Byleth stopped by the second one, a set of rich mahogany double doors, intricately laced with carved fleur-de-lis, various vines and flowers. 

“Here.” They motioned with their head and eased the doors open. They disappeared into the room, and Ingrid could only trail after them. She walked into the room assuming it would only be Edelgard, but it was her and then some, all in their war-time regalia. And she, in her dirt-stained clothes more fitting for a farmer than a knight. They all looked at her, fumbling her way into their war-room. Brilliant sunlight streamed in from the windows lining the left wall, glinting off of the decorative armour sitting on stands in the back of the room.

Five of them sat at a long, rectangular table, with Edelgard at the head. A woman sat at Edelgard’s left, Hubert at her right. And another man, sitting beside the woman. In front of them was a map of Fódlan, blue and red pieces dotted along the face of it. This wasn’t a typical meeting, if the few Ingrid attended back in Faerghus were anything to go by. There were a lot more knights and lords, for one. 

“This is the knight?” The woman to the left of the Emperor asked, in obvious disbelief. She had dirty blonde hair up in a messy bun, but what caught Ingrid’s eye was her armour: it was nothing short of impressive, a set of tiny dragon’s wings on the spaulders, red and gold filigree lining everything else.

“Unfortunately.” Hubert drawled from his seat by Edelgard, golden eye flickering to Ingrid. “Though it matters little what she wears to this meeting, no matter what decorum might state.” He had an arm crossing his midsection, and the other hand poised under his chin, as if in thought. The hank of hair covering his other eye always made him that much harder to read.

“She was in the greenhouse.” Byleth pointed out rather unhelpfully, taking a seat beside the other man. He had short brown hair, and a small, mean face, his long fingers curled into each other on top of the table. Though less impressive, his armor was a shade shy of burgundy and clearly worn and dented.

“If I had known—” Ingrid clenched her hands into fists, hating the way her entire body felt aflame. 

“You can leave your embarrassment at the door. Take a seat and join us.” Edelgard gave her a small smile, perhaps in an effort to be encouraging, though it was anything but. Feeling threatened and set up did not endear these people to her, much less to what they wanted her to do. As always, she was compelled by duty. So she sat, a seat away from everyone else.

“Introductions will need to be made,” Hubert stood from his chair, the feet of which scraped across the stone flooring. “The woman here is Ladislava, head of Her Majesty’s personal guard. The man is Randolph, distinguished general of the Adrestian army. Now that names have been shared, let us return to the matter at hand.”

Hubert didn't bother sharing her name with Randolph or Ladislava. Either they already knew about the Kingdom turncoat, or they didn't care. Ingrid studied the tabletop, her thoughts swirling, refusing to be made sensible.

“Now then,” Apparently pleased, Edelgard turned her attention back to the map and the tiny pieces. It looked a lot like a board game. "I've been receiving troublesome rumours as of late. Our villages along the border of Magdred Way have been victims of constant raiding. No doubt this is an effort to focus our attention away from our objective."

At that, Ingrid's attention was snapped from the wood grain to Edelgard. Cairbre was too close for comfort to the area of Magdred Way, broad as it might be. 

"I see this doesn't surprise you?" Nothing escaped Edelgard's attention, much less the way Ingrid sat staring.

She was about to reply when Randolph cut in, full of bravado.

"Send me, Your Majesty. I'll have the raids stopped in no time." 

“I appreciate your eagerness, Randolph, but I was hoping Ingrid might know the person behind them.” Edelgard told him.

"I do." Alfric was a minor vassal of the Kingdom, greedy and cruel. The rich land of Magdred Way wasn't enough, not all the game in the woods, or the wonderful soil for agriculture. It wouldn't surprise Ingrid in the least if he had cut a deal with bandits.

Randolph shot her a glare, like she was stealing his attention away from _Her Majesty._ If she had her way, she wouldn't be sitting at that table, she wouldn't be there at all. Attention from Edelgard was the last thing she wanted.

"That's what I was hoping to hear." Edelgard smiled, grim and without mirth. “Who is this Lord?”

“Alfric, a minor nobel, oversees the land on the outskirts of Gaspard. He doesn’t have heirs, and took control of the land from his uncle when he passed.” With a shake of her head, Ingrid added, “I can’t say I ever liked the man. He cares little for his people, and too much about power, and money.” Gaining power by punching down wasn’t anything new, and Faerghus was far from free of it, particularly along the southern border.

“Then suffice it to say, colluding with bandits wouldn’t be out of the question.” Hubert said, eye flickering from his Emperor to Ingrid. Randolph and Ladislava listened intently.

“I had the same thoughts.” Ingrid paused, unsure of how to feel about agreeing with him. There was an air of satisfaction about the man, though whether that was for something else entirely was hard to say. 

“However, I’m afraid this is all merely conjecture and without evidence.” Hubert added, gesturing with his hand.

“Either way, it would be prudent to send someone to investigate the raids.” At last, Ladislava spoke up. Her voice was quiet, as if she were still mulling something over. “Whether or not this Alfric is to blame, we can’t let Faerghus think it can poke us without comeuppance.” An oversimplification of a larger problem, but Ladislava wasn’t far off. Minor lords, in a bid to climb the social ladder, would do many a stupid thing. 

"Then I'll go." The answer surprised herself as much as it did Hubert. Mostly (selfishly) she was worried about Mercedes. Ladislava seemed pleased with the answer, though Randolph sulked like a sullen boy. Silence blanketed the room. 

“It would make tactical sense, would it not? Your personal guard certainly can’t go, and Randolph is needed here, to lead his men for more important battles. I am without aim otherwise.” They wanted her knowledge of the kingdom and the associated vassalage, and she gave it to them. The least they could do is hear her out.

"You know I require you to… _dispose_ of this lord if need be, yes?" Edelgard set her violet eyes on Ingrid, perhaps searching her for any sign of duplicity. 

"Don't condescend to me—please, Your Majesty." The latter part was hastily tacked on. Curse her temper, curse the trappings of nobility and their love of titles. Ingrid tamped down her mounting ire. Hubert looked ready to reprimand her, though he remained silent. Surely she didn't think her incapable of reading between the lines.

"I only ask because I know this request is a lot to expect from you. Even if you may not like this Alfric, you'll undoubtedly be fighting against those you once considered comrades-at-arms." Insofar as they once shared a king; she had a point. The defiance in Ingrid died a slow death, left her with a sigh. All that remained was a tired numbness. 

"If it please Your Majesty, I'll leave in a day's time." Ingrid softened, took the barb out of her words. Edelgard was giving Ingrid an olive branch, yet she was too busy finding insult at everything to notice.

"No, you will not." She said, though there was no heat in her tone, only a gentle insistence. 

"I beg your pardon?" Ingrid balked at the simple refusal. Was this entire meeting not about the Magdred Way raids, and did she not provide a solution? Edelgard gave a small shake of her head, rueful smile upon her lips.

“Ingrid, I need you at your best. And right now, you are far from. You’ll leave with Byleth within a fortnight.” Edelgard said. Byleth didn’t seem fazed at the nomination, just gave Edelgard a placid look. (What better way to make sure she wasn’t running back than to make one of your pet shadows trail behind?)

“As you wish.” Ingrid said flatly, forcing her eyes away from the four of them. Ingrid felt like a canary trapped in a room with a litter of cats.

“Thank you. You may leave now.” Another small smile, one Ingrid had no desire or energy to return. She gave a stiff nod and rose. 

On shaky legs, she left the five of them and the war room behind. The air had gotten so stale, so tense, it became hard to breathe. Volunteering herself for the mission wasn’t something she saw herself doing, much less getting Byleth dragged into. _Better them than anyone else in that room,_ she thought bitterly.

Cool air greeted her when she left the second floor of Garreg Mach. The sun dipped lower behind the mountains, taking with it the bulk of the heat. Ingrid took her time returning to her dorm, happy for an excuse to stretch her legs. 

People milled about, doing one errand or another. Not all of them were soldiers or military personnel, either. Some looked to be townsfolk, some were literal children—refugees, maybe. Fhirdiad itself was full of them; hopefuls who ran from war and all it brought, others with nothing left to lose. Silly of her to be making the comparison then, of all times. War never cared what it took, or from who, just that it took something.

Ingrid came to the door of her room, foot colliding with something bulky. There, at her feet rested a package, wrapped in plain brown paper. Confused, she looked from one end of the dormitories, to the other. A bird sang a lonely song. No one else was around. She picked up the package (it was light, soft), and shouldered the door open, closed it with her foot.

Ingrid placed the package on her desk, plopped herself into the chair and wondered. Paranoia had so far done her no favours, but she figured a little couldn’t hurt. She edged a flap open, and removed the paper as carefully as she could; no need to waste it, afterall. 

Pale blue fabric stared up at her, on top of it a note. 

_It was unfortunately obvious you arrived with little but your steed and yourself. As a knight of the Adrestian Empire, you must also look the part. You represent not just Adrestia, but the Emperor too. Consider these clothes a gift, for a step in the right direction._

It was unsigned, the script small, and flowing. 

She was torn between feeling embarrassed, or grateful.


	3. North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunions, and preparations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all my chapters are named after alaskan tapes songs.

It was amazing what a bath, some food and a change of clothes could do. She hadn’t felt human since she arrived at Garreg Mach. Nine more days, and she'd be riding off with Byleth for the Adrestian border.

As promised, Loog was safe and sound in the stables, the grey dappled mare receiving much deserved rest. In a way, Ingrid envied her. Sleep was a fickle thing. When it did come to her, it was in fits and starts. Nightmares, too. Ones where her father's blood stained her hands. Ones where she'd wake up in a cold sweat, never quite remembering the dream but knowing it was best she didn’t.

Caring for Loog was a calming routine all its own; emptied out the contents of her mind that refused to shut up, keep quiet. It had been five days since she came crawling to the empire, and never had she felt so lonely. At least Loog’s presence was a balm for that ache. Everyone she knew and cared for was back in Faerghus, or dead. 

She made it a point to come by the stables and visit Loog. Sometimes, she'd sneak her an apple she pinched from the dining hall.

Bright morning sunlight chased away the chill of the night, melted away the dew. Ingrid had led Loog out of her box stall, and into the courtyard (if one could call it that) outside. She tethered Loog to the post, and dropped the bucket of brushes and supplies a foot away. All the better so neither she tripped nor Loog got the cute idea of kicking it.

Hoof pick in hand, she started with Loog's hooves, making sure they were free of dry dirt or manure. When that was done, she moved on to currying the horse, removing the dirt in her coat, working in slow circular motions. Detangling the mane and tail, and brushing Loog down with a soft brush followed. The work was methodical, and welcomed. (And Loog, always one for attention, did not mind.) 

An hour of peace was all she was afforded. With Loog’s reins in one hand, and the bucket of supplies in the other, she made her way back into the stables proper. She slipped Loog back into her box stall, and had her hand on the latch of the lock when someone entered.

"I thought you'd be here." Came a voice at the mouth of the stables. Ingrid paused what she doing, wanting any excuse not to be there and coming up short. Nothing could have prepared her for this.

"Sylvain." With reluctance, she turned to face him. Five years did little to change him: his hair was shaggier, yes, but he still retained his carefree air, his youthfulness. War didn’t damage some as it did others. He strode into the stables with his unmistakable insouciance, black armour polished to a shine. Typical Faerghus fur lining peeked out from his gorget. 

Was that a flinch he tried to hide? His eyes lingered on the mountain ridge of her nose, how it leaned ever so slightly to the left. 

"That's, uh, new." He said. She refused to be embarrassed under his scrutiny.

A shrug was all he’d get from her. Nothing for her to say to that, nothing that wouldn't have the memories hurtling back with a startling ferocity. She closed the lock on Loog’s box stall, gave the mare another pat on the snout. A breath in, a breath out.

"How… when…" Sylvain floundered, obstinate in his refusal to let it be. 

"Almost a year ago." Ingrid replied, voice rough, terse. Grimacing at the memory, she crossed her arms. Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, the image of Kyphon seemed etched on the back of her lids.

"What happened?" Sylvain asked, his eyes lingered on her nose. Ingrid swallowed thickly, paused, caught between letting everything bubble out of her and tamping it all back down. What use was there in ripping the scab off?

"Kyphon is gone." She said simply. "I don't want to talk about it, Sylvain." She missed Kyphon with an ache that never left, missed the air and the sky and the freedom her pegasus gave her. It was her fault Kyphon got shot down, her stupidity that lead to her steed’s death. 

For once, Sylvain grew quiet, close to thoughtful. Glenn made a big show of gifting her the pegasus, all those years ago. Kyphon was the last piece she had of him, and now her pegasus’ bones lay on some forgotten field.

"You're not kidding," Sylvain reached up to scratch the back of his head, clearly feeling out of place. "I... that's too bad." He finished lamely. He must have remembered, he must have recalled the day Glenn gave her Kyphon. Ingrid gave him a stiff nod refusing to acknowledge the way her eyes burned, and hoping he didn’t notice too.

"That explains why you're--"

"Sylvain, please?" Her voice betrayed her, cracked at the end. Reliving the moment was as appealing as tearing off her fingernails, and about as painful. He heaved a sigh, his gauntlet clattered against his leg.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed. It’s just been so long since we saw each other, and I guess a part of me expected you to be as you were five years ago.” 

Ingrid pressed a hand to Loog’s nose, gave her a pat when she nuzzled into Ingrid’s touch. She closed her eyes. A breath in, a breath out.

“Forget it,” She said, giving her horse one last stroke down her nose. “I suppose some people change, and others don’t.” Once again, she turned her attention to him. 

"I'm not asking you to forgive me. But, look, we're here now, aren't we?" Sylvain said. He seemed unsure now where before he walked with confidence, purpose. Adrift in his indecision, Sylvain almost pouted.

"I don't think I can, though that smacks of hypocrisy given the circumstances." Ingrid gave him a tight smile.

"Hey now," He said, surprisingly soft, gentle. A hand upon her shoulder snapped Ingrid out of her thoughts. (When did he get so tall?) "I know you wouldn't have done this if you had any other choice." As if that made everything better. Pondering what ifs didn’t fix anything, didn’t make anything better.

"I threw it all away because my people were starving." Ingrid’s eyes slide from his hand to the cobblestone floor, covered in straw. She murmured, her fingers picked at the short teeth of the curry comb. “Another famine struck, and there’s little I could do to alleviate their suffering.”

"If you're anything to go by, I believe it." He caught himself. "Not to say you're not as beautiful as ever--" Then he noticed the dour look upon her face. "I… gee, tough crowd."

"Why did you do it?" She said suddenly. “Why’d you join Edelgard?” The question had been burning at the back of her mind for a long time. Sometimes she toyed with the idea of writing him, but the letter never would have arrived even if she had. Taken aback, Sylvain balked at the question. 

"What have crests ever done for you? Anders used yours as leverage for marriage for fuck's sake!" Of course he’d throw that in her face, as if everything she’s done wasn’t for her family. 

"To hell with crests! You know that's not what I'm asking, Sylvain." Ingrid wanted to slap him, made her hand a fist instead. There was no smart retort for that. Abashed, Sylvain drew his mouth into a tight line. 

"You turned your back on everyone!" Ingrid continued. "On me." She wasn’t sure if Sylvain heard the last part, or if she wanted him to. Dimitri and Felix abandoned her, too. She was left with no one. Sylvain didn’t seem to get it; how would he if he left the night of the coup and had no qualms about it. She needed out of the stable, the space too small too cramped. Abruptly, she pushed past him and out into the bright, taunting sunlight. 

"That's not fair!" Sylvain shouted after her; she’d never seen him that livid before. The sound of his boots followed after her. Tossing a glance over her shoulder, she saw Sylvain reach out, like he meant to touch her then thought better of it.

“I know you’ve been through a lot, but you can’t just throw this at my feet and blame me for everything.” When he spoke, it was softer, lower, like a part of him sought repentance for raising his voice in the first place. The few people milling about wisely left the area, walking briskly down the stairs leading to the marketplace.

“Yet leaving behind everything you held dear wasn’t hard for you?” She shot back. Five years’ worth of anger oozed to the surface. Five years of pain and confusion and betrayal: a poisonous cocktail that hurt her as much as it did him.

“Ingrid, what do you want me to say? I don’t regret what I did.” Sylvain said hotly, tossing his arms at his sides. Perhaps it was unfair of her to be doing this, to demand answers for things already said and done, but she couldn’t stop. “Do you want me to apologize?”

“I don’t know what I want you to do, I just--” She didn’t know, _she didn’t know._ Apologizing would do little. It wouldn’t take away the bitter sting of betrayal, even after all this time. The two of them stood in the awkward quiet, staring. Sylvain spoke first.

“Look, maybe we should just forgive and forget, all right?” He sighed, hand on his hip. Ingrid had the good sense to swallow down the barbed words she was ready to let fly. Another olive branch, and one she’d be a fool to slap out of his hands. 

“Fine,” Ingrid took a breath, let it out. “Someone needs to keep you out of trouble.” 

“Don’t worry, Byleth’s a great buzzkill.” An awkward laugh escaped Sylvain. A story hid between his words, but Ingrid didn’t have the energy to ask him to elaborate. 

“I can only imagine.” She offered.

“You know, despite everything… I’m glad you’re here, Ingrid. I was so worried I’d find you on the battlefield, that we’d be forced to fight.” He said, serious for a rare moment. Fighting him wasn’t something she’d be fond of, either. Neither of them were Felix, who seemed ready to throw down with anyone regardless of relationship. 

“I’m glad it won’t come to that anymore.” And she meant it. Losing him once was hard enough, but a second time? No, no time for that rabbit hole.

“I gotta go debrief with the Emperor. I’ll see you around, all right?” 

“Of course, Sylvain.” 

“Dinner’s on me.” He gave her an odd clap on the shoulder before sauntering off. Everything felt unsatisfying: the way he spoke, the answers he gave her, the quick escape. Sylvain’s changed, too.

A breath in, a breath out. Hitting something sounded great right about then.

Ingrid marched her way to the training grounds, which was close to empty in the mid-morning. A couple of men in their breeches and gambesons ducked and weaved each other's strikes. They paid her no mind, which suited her just fine. She grabbed a wooden sword from a rack, and strode for the training dummies standing stoically in the far left of the training grounds. She picked the dummy on the right.

There was no form or artistry to the brutal bludgeoning. Ingrid hit the dummy for the sake of hitting something, even if every whack sent a jolt from her wrist to her elbow. 

"Would you prefer to hit something not stuffed with straw?"

Ingrid turned to the voice, surprised at who stood before her. Of course Petra remained with the Empire, with the Black Eagle Strike Force. Her being here--still a political prisoner?--ensured Brigid’s compliance… and their support. 

"Petra." Ingrid said, grip on her sword loosening. She took shallow breaths, trying to control her breathing and not look like she was beating an inanimate object with all her might.

"And you are Ingrid. I am glad you have--are--remembering." She said with a slight smile. 

Petra was awfully hard to forget: intense, determined, and with the deadly skill to back it all up. She strode with the confidence and liquid grace of a cat. Her hair, even longer now, was done in a series of complicated braids. She bared her midriff in a leather top, a cascade of necklaces adoring her. The short skirt she wore jingled slightly with the metal rings hanging off the belt. In her hand hung a wooden sword, not unlike the one Ingrid beat the dummy with.

"I would welcome the change of pace." Ingrid tried to return the smile. The reunion with Sylvain, agitating as it was, circled in her thoughts without end. Besides, there was only so much to be gained by slapping around a practice dummy.

"Then shall we?" Petra wasted no time. She dropped her stance low, all the easier to jab at lazy openings brought on by wide slashes. (Ingrid was never that overeager; preferred the feel and weight of a lance in her hand than a sword anyway.)

Ingrid parried the first stab, and barely blocked the second before it connected with her side. Then another slash to the left of her, one Ingrid knocked aside with the side of the practice sword. Slowly, Ingrid was being pushed further and further back, Petra gaining ground. Her onslaught was unrelenting, but Ingrid knew it'd be a matter of time before even she grew tired. 

An insistent throbbing began in Ingrid's shin, one she ignored. Ingrid had done that since she left the Oddveig convent almost a year ago, ignoring the throbbing of her shin. Otherwise, she’d never get anything done. She also ignored the stern warnings the nurses and Mercedes gave her when she returned home to Galatea county, but otherwise she was fine. A little pain now and then she could handle.

Petra adjusted her stance, feinted to the right, Ingrid almost too slow to catch the trick in time. Tucking into a roll, she weaved under Petra's outstretched arm, got to her feet and tapped her, gently, on the shoulder.

"One point for me." Ingrid grinned, breathing heavy. 

“You have gotten the better of me,” Petra chuckled, amused. “But you might not be lucky next round.” She grew serious once more, dropping to the low stance from earlier.

“Again?” She asked.

Ingrid planted her feet, making sure to hold the practice blade with both hands.

“Again.”

Petra slid to the left, face a mask of concentration as she took a wide slash upwards. An easy block, an obvious set up for another move. Ingrid saw Petra shift her feet just so, turn her elbow a fraction before bringing the wooden sword back down for a horizontal strike. She leapt backwards, pain racing up her leg, but she swallowed it down and slashed. The wide blow had Petra bracing, parrying the attack with ease.

Then Petra shifted her feet again, bent low and grabbed Ingrid’s right ankle, gave it a tug. Ingrid’s lousy footing had her on her back before she could piece together what happened, air knocked out of her lungs. Blue sky stared down at her. 

“One point for you.” She wheezed, blinking the lights from her eyes.

“Sneakiness is my specialty.” Petra said, beaming.

“I’m beginning to notice.” Ingrid said wryly. Petra offered her a hand back up, and she took it with a slight grimace. 

“Did I hurt you? I am forgetting my own strength sometimes… It is Caspar who usually trains with me and he is very sturdiness--ah, sturdy.” She looked at Ingrid with a touch of concern, which she waved off. It’d take someone sturdy to keep up with her, as quick as she was. 

“No, please don’t worry. My leg bothers me sometimes. It’s nothing, really.” Ingrid admitted. She pressed on before Petra could comment and ask why. “Sparring with you today was just what I needed.”

“I had enjoyment, too. Can we spar again another time? I have a few tricks you have not seen yet.” The earnestness of Petra was refreshing from the dourness surrounding the bulk of the soldiers stationed at the Monastery. 

“I’d like that, Petra.” 

They said their goodbyes, and parted ways at the double doors of the training grounds. Training set her leg to aching, even if the exercise felt good. Petra was fast, dangerously so, and keeping up with the dance they had going was hard work.

The library sat in stark contrast with the liveliness of the training grounds: candles were kept lit at all times, their flames sending tall shadows crawling to the ceiling. The librarian had retired for the night, presumably, and it was just Ingrid walking amongst the stacks.

Being in that space again had memories wafting back, unbidden. She remembered sitting at the table in the far right with Ashe, gushing about the heroic actions of Kyphon and Loog; reminiscing about reading the book so often that the spine fell apart and the cover faded from being held, or how she'd read it again and again by candle light when Glenn died because it was easier to forget the pain when her mind was preoccupied.

Idly, her hand drifted up to run along the spines of the books, so lost in time gone by she didn't hear the click of heels on stone flooring.

"Is that my Ingrid?" Dorothea's melodic voice sent a jolt of surprise down her spine, she all but jumped. Then, a delighted squeal and before Ingrid could react, she was bundled up into a perfumed hug. She stumbled a touch, righting herself with a wince. The ache in her leg was intent on staying.

"Dorothea," she mumbled lamely into her shoulder. Rose suited Dorothea, the smell was delicate. Slowly, her arms cooperated and wrapped around the other woman. She shouldn't crave touch as badly as she does, but she's so starved for affection she'll crumble at the feet of anyone who offered a hand to hold. "I've missed you." 

"Oh, it's so good to see you, too." Dorothea squeezed Ingrid, then held her out at arms length. "Now let me get a look at you."

Ingrid managed not to flinch at the attention, though she itched to look away. Dorothea was as beautiful as ever, despite the tiredness dragging the edges of her smile down. (It looked like she barely slept, if at all.)

"Still stunning, I see." Dorothea said, smile never faltering. Ingrid didn't feel stunning. Not when she had Dorothea standing in front of her, the closest thing to resplendent she had ever seen. The red dress did wonders for her, with the bodice cut low and snug, with an intricately carved silver corset accentuating it all. Waves of dark brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, and gold earrings dangled from her ears. Her makeup was as delicate as her perfume. Just a hint. Goddess, she felt inadequate. 

“Please,” Ingrid said softly. “It should be me saying that.” 

Dorothea made a thoughtful noise, cupped Ingrid’s chin with a hand, inspecting her.

“It’s the nose, isn’t it.” She said finally, then dropped her hand. “Really, Ingrid, a woman like you shouldn’t care. If anything, it adds character.” 

A laugh bubbled out of Ingrid, a mixture of relief and disbelief. At least Dorothea didn’t flinch away when she saw it, like Sylvain did. For some reason, it stood out to her, the difference in reaction.

“No, it’s not that, I--I just--” _ Have always found you lovely, captivating, alluring in ways indescribable._ Words were never her friend. “Anyone who stands besides you looks plain in comparison. That’s all.”

“As much as I _love_ the ego stroking, especially from you… I just wanted to see you. It’s been years. Long years.” The facade slipped, if only by an inch. Ingrid saw it then, the sadness and the darkness in her green eyes. Dorothea’s smile fell, the tiredness winning over whatever happiness she had.

“It has,” Ingrid agreed, preoccupied with worry. She couldn't shake the feeling that Dorothea hid many things from many people, now. “Have you been keeping well, at least?" Searching her face for answers didn't help.

"Better now that I help Manuela with her patients in the infirmary." Dorothea smiled again, but it never reached her eyes. "She's been teaching me faith magic, though unfortunately I'm still more skilled in the darker arts." Which meant Dorothea didn’t fight, not anymore. Not all scars were physical, and some were harder to bear than others. She didn’t hold that against her. Someone like Dorothea shouldn’t _need_ to fight, and yet...

“Do you still sing?” She asked suddenly. Immediately, she regretted the choice of question. Dorothea's face fell, and she looked lost. 

“Well, when you're busy caring for the sick and injured, you lose the opportunity. Not many want an operatic solo at their bedside." Dorothea slid her glance to the floor, hair falling in her eyes. 

“Then they’re fools, the lot of them.” Ingrid said, reaching over and pushing a piece of hair behind her ear. She meant what she said to lighten the mood, to offer her a little light. Dorothea caught Ingrid’s hand in her own, held it.

“You’re sweet,” She said, thumb sweeping over Ingrid’s knuckles, over the scar that ran across them. “You’ve always been so.” 

“I’m only saying the truth.” Ingrid swallowed, eyes bouncing from Dorothea’s dark expression to their hands. The room was so warm.

“Can we leave this place? It’s so stuffy in here--why don’t I walk you back to your room?” Dorothea offered, releasing Ingrid’s hand. 

“I could use a breath of fresh air.” She said. The library had grown far too stifling. With a small smile, Dorothea offered Ingrid an elbow. A moment passed before Ingrid caught on, and looped her hand in the crook of it, letting her lead them out of the library. The hallway was empty, save for them. With midday coming close, most were presumably getting ready for lunch. 

“I would have sought you out sooner, but a part of me was afraid to.” Dorothea said, stare trained ahead. The same could be said for Ingrid, but for the first handful of days, she was too busy tooling around the greenhouse and wearing her ass as a hat. 

“What were you afraid of? It’s just me.” Ingrid said, giving her a quick look. Unable to gauge much from her unreadable expression, Ingrid focused again on the hallway. They took a left, down a flight of stairs, and entered into a cheerfully bright midmorning. She blinked against the sudden shift in light.

“Oh, it wasn’t about you, actually.” The tinge of sadness and guilt in her voice was unmistakable. “This way, yes?” With her free hand, she gestured to the right, eliciting a nod from Ingrid.

“Then what were you afraid of?” She hedged the question carefully, worried pushing too hard might make Dorothea clam up. 

“What you would think of me.” A simple statement, yet one that only confused and distressed Ingrid. “I--I know it’s silly, but I had this thought that somehow you’d know all that I’ve done, and I couldn’t bear to let you see me.” Hearing the regret in Dorothea’s voice pained her. Most everyone had been forced to do things they wouldn’t have done otherwise; it didn’t make her think less of Dorothea. Not by any stretch. They stopped, having arrived at Ingrid's door. 

“This war forces people to make terrible choices,” Ingrid said simply, gathering Dorothea’s hands in her own. “Makes good people do bad things, but it doesn’t make them bad.” If she only knew the things Ingrid herself had done, all in the name of her King. No matter what anyone said, it never got easier. You either coped with it, or drowned trying. Some days, Ingrid felt like she was the latter, never breaking water. And to have Dorothea in front of her, admitting she felt the same, hit too close to home.

“I’ll need to try and remember that.” Dorothea said with a shaky smile. A bit of light had returned to her eyes, though the edge remained.

"And I'd like to continue seeing you, if that pleases you." Ingrid replied, giving her hands a squeeze. 

"Why, so polite!" Dorothea gave a weak laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. She would do next to anything to hear it again. 

Without thinking, Ingrid brought one of Dorothea’s hands to her lips and kissed the valley of her knuckles, softly. She met her eyes, and held them. Seiros knows why she did; but it felt right regardless. It felt good, to see the way Dorothea's face lit up at the small gesture.

"You're bound to make a girl swoon with that knightly act of yours." Dorothea said, voice low. A lop-sided smirk edged its way onto Ingrid's mouth, pleased with the response.

"I'll be seeing you." She said, adding a bow for effect. Another weak laugh came from Dorothea. She wrapped Ingrid up in another hug, lingering for a moment too long, before saying her goodbyes. Ingrid watched her walk away.

Nine days came and went quicker than Ingrid expected. Sylvain was always busy, or had reason to avoid her. As disappointing as it was, there was little about the situation she could change, no matter how much it hurt her. Time didn’t heal all wounds, it seemed.

Dorothea, and by extension, Manuela, were more grateful for her company. She'd visit them in the infirmary from time to time, sometimes bringing tea, sometimes playing cards. (She tried to find ways to make Dorothea smile, or laugh, something she did very little of nowadays.) Adjusting to her new life in the Empire would always be an uphill struggle, but certain people made it more bearable. Made it less of a struggle, and more of an irritation, just an itch she couldn't quite reach.

The morning of departure was bleak, and grey. Dorothea had wished her well and made her swear a dozen and one promises to bring bother herself, and Byleth back in one piece. Then pressed something into her hand "for the road". A good luck charm, she said; a small metal object in the shape of lion. 

Ingrid had Loog saddled, her things (and provisions provided) packed up in the saddlebags, and waited at the gates for Byleth. She adjusted her armor for what felt like the umpteenth time: a cuirass over a leather vest, and a pair of gauntlets. Used to traveling light for the sake of Kyphon, she wore little in the way of actual armour. A blacksmith in town had mended the pieces for her in exchange for doing simple chores. 

Loog picked up on her nervousness, whickering and pawing at the cobblestone. She placed a calming hand upon her steed’s neck just as Byleth rounded a corner. A silver dun walked beside them, an impossibly tall horse for someone not much taller than Edelgard. It was hard not to wonder how Byleth was going to mount such a horse with one arm.

“Ready?” They asked, voice flat and expression unchanging as always. Ingrid nodded, abashed at her curiosity. She eased up on Loog’s saddle, sensing how eager her horse was to be moving. A change of scenery would be nice, she had to agree. 

Byleth got up on their dun without much fuss. A couple onlookers looked ready to intervene, but kept back when their leg found purchase and they swung over the saddle. They motioned to the guards, and the gates creaked open. 

Somerled, their destination, was a good three days travel from Garreg Mach, their route avoiding the worst of Oghma. Ingrid just hoped it didn’t rain, though the heavy clouds above had other ideas.

Together, they left Garreg Mach.


	4. Where They Lay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ingrid and Byleth arrive in Somerled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an alternative summary is: ingrid goes camping and has a really fucking terrible time.
> 
> anyway, thank you everyone for your patience. october was, personally, a busy month and november is shaping up to be, too. i have gifts and trades to divide my attention on, though i have chapter five outlined, and started! i appreciate the handful of people who have stuck by this passion project, and i hope y'all see it through to the end. hopefully this extra-long chapter will makeup for the wait. ^_^
> 
> you can always reach me on twitter @verytinysammy . i post near-daily updates on chapter progress. feel free to drop me a line!

Heavy, gray clouds hung overhead, threatening rain. Wind tugged at the cape fastened to the collar of Ingrid's armor cuirass, and she fended off a shiver. Byleth and their dun stallion rode ahead, leaving Ingrid at the mercy of her thoughts. Every so often, the dull light of day would catch on the axe attached to their saddlebags, an odd addition since she couldn’t picture them using it for chopping wood. Her own lance lay braced and tied up on her right, though not within easy reach.

Invariably, her mind drifted to Mercedes, and her father. Ingrid hadn't heard from Mercedes since she turned her back on her Kingdom (where else would she send the letters besides her family home?), and she was sure Anders wanted nothing to do with her. Galatea would die a penniless and destitute house with no honour. The bloodline well and truly died with her, now.

The road ahead of them stretched on well into the horizon--painfully familiar, considering. It looked so different by day, less malevolent; the trees less a prison and more a green fence.

Ingrid's attention slid from the dirt path and its unending horizon, to Byleth sauntering in front. Their silver dun was nothing short of magnificent, with a deep chest and strong legs meant for endurance. If the fierce gleam in its eye is anything to go by, a formidable war horse to boot. Loog was unbloodied, and would remain so. There was no way she could fathom bringing another animal into war, not since Kyphon.

A thought occurred to her then. She pressed Loog's sides with her heels, gently urging her horse onward until she rode side by side with Byleth and their stallion.

“Byleth,” Ingrid said, edging Loog away when the dun tossed its head. A cantankerous creature, it seemed, unwilling to share space or give up the lead.

“Yes, Ingrid?” Byleth regarded Ingrid with a flat look, paying no heed to their horse’s irritability.

“I was wondering something,” she continued, falling back half a foot. The dun calmed some, not liking the intrusion of space. “Does your horse have a name?”

There was a moment where they seemed to contemplate their answer, and another moment where Ingrid expected them to tell her they named their horse “horse”.

“Rowan.” They said simply, focus trained ahead. “After my favourite tree.” Rowan trees grew in places one wouldn't expect to see a tree grow at all. A lot of Faerghus' northern counties were covered in them.

“In some folklore,” Byleth continued, hand twitching as if they meant to pat their horse’s neck. “Rowan trees symbolise wisdom, courage and protection. Wouldn't eat the berries, though.” As a child, Ingrid made that mistake, the bitter, awful taste making her sick. Sylvain had laughed and laughed and laughed.

The answer surprised her--the amount of emotion was shocking enough--but the thought and sentimentality behind the name just about floored Ingrid.

“There are a lot of rowan trees in Galatea County.” She said, unsure of what else to say.

“Indeed. My father found the bulk of his work in Faerghus.” A small smile plucked at Byleth’s lips, the memory clearly fond. Jeralt and his mercenaries never had a home,

“Oh?”

Byleth nodded, then said, “All but grew up there.”

Byleth was an enigma without end. No one bothered to ask them anything. Did they? Ingrid was just as guilty of this as anyone else.

“I had no idea.” Ingrid admitted, brows knit together. Common ground wasn't something she thought the two of them shared. Yet, she ate her words. How bitter the taste, just like those berries.

“No one asked.” Byleth gave a shrug of their shoulders, colour blooming on their face. Talking about themselves mustn't have been a thing they did often. Or something they cared to do. Conversation, if one can call it that, came to a grinding halt.

Night came softly, gradually, no sunset to bathe the world in a riot of warm colour. The clouds continued to hang above their heads. They stopped by a stream for the evening, Ingrid taking the horses and dressing them down as Byleth made camp. (Rowan was as fierce as she thought he'd be, throwing a kick when he didn't like the way she approached him, nipping at her hands when she tied the feedbag onto him.) Rowan and Loog were tied off on a copse of trees a pace away from their camping spot.

Ingrid wandered back to the clearing by the stream bed, Byleth hunched over a bundle of dry twigs. A small flame appeared in their hands, the wisps tickling the tinder and breathing life to it. The fire was barely big enough to offer warmth. They were worried about attracting undue attention, and Ingrid knew if it wasn't for her, they'd have slept in the dark and cold.

In silence, they ate their rations of dried meat and bread, washed down by water. She glanced over at Byleth who stared at nothing in particular, their arm braced against their knee.

"Is it hard riding with one arm?" The words flew out of her mouth before her mind (and propriety) could catch up. They gave Ingrid a quick look, eyes darting back to the fire. Ingrid had the decency to feel ashamed about her lack of tact. How thoughtless of her! However, if her question upset Byleth, they didn’t show it.

"After a fashion." Their words came carefully, speaking more to the fire than her.

"I meant no offense. My curiosity got the better of me."

"None taken. It's been a big adjustment, one I'm still getting used to. Sometimes I wake up, and it feels like my arm is still there." Byleth said quietly, almost as if they didn't want Ingrid to hear. She couldn't even begin to imagine what it was like to lose a limb, and she prayed she never had to find out.

"I know this isn't comparable, but… I… I fell from Kyphon a handful of months ago." If Byleth was going to bare themselves to her, she figured it was only right she did the same. Talking about her fall from the sky wasn’t something she did often--or at all. The mere thought of it had the memories hurtling back, fresh as the day they happened. Almost overwhelming. She had to blink them away.

"I was wondering after your pegasus." Byleth said, eyes shimmering with some unknown emotion. Ingrid barreled past the half-question, not wanting to answer, or re-live Kyphon's death. The fire, weak as it was, smoldered upon dry branches. Every so often, a crack or a pop would burst free, punctuating the night with it’s sound.

"My leg," Without thought, her hand drifted to her thigh, gripped it slightly. "Even after all that time, it aches still." Byleth took the hint from Ingrid’s refusal to speak about Kyphon, graciously joined Ingrid in the change of topic.

"I've noticed your limp." Byleth weighed their words, measured them out one by one. There was a gentle sadness in their eyes--that was the emotion she couldn’t place a moment ago--at least it wasn't pity. Pity would have made Ingrid's gut curdle.

"It's getting harder to hide." Ingrid admitted with a grimace. She was warned to keep off it, warned to stay longer at the Oddveig convent, but time was a currency she had little of to trade in. Returning to duty was delayed, in Anders’ words, for far too long for what he assumed to be a mere trip over her own feet. Duty and family trumped all, even healing. Restoring the Galatea name to its former glory trumped all. How auspicious it was that she was born with a Crest, even if it was minor. How terrible that she threw it all away.

A part of her was afraid she'd be court marshaled for the injury, nevermind the almost chronic pain. The blow to her pride and honour would be close to catastrophic. So much like Kyphon’s death and her accident, it wasn’t something she spoke of. To anyone.

Where would she be if she couldn't fight? Who would she be without her knighthood? Ingrid could not paint, or sing, or farm; animal husbandry outside of horses was a mystery to her and she had no talents outside of how best to kill a man. Maybe it would have been better if she died beneath Kyphon, if Mercedes never happened upon her.

Byelth said nothing, which Ingrid was grateful for. Admitting the injury was hard enough, but pity would have made it worse. Especially from Byleth. If they could find it in themselves to feel pity, what must anyone else think of her?

"I'll take first watch." Ingrid said, dragging herself out of her introspection. Byleth gave a nod, then rose to their feet (Ingrid ignoring the compulsion to offer help) to retrieve their bedroll. They curled up with their cloak, their half-cape serving as a pillow.

Night brought with it a chill their meager fire couldn’t chase away. Hunching up in her cloak did little to fend it off, made her think of home though the nights in Galatea county (and particularly Gautier lands) were far more unforgiving.

The medallion Dorothea pressed into her hands before she left the monastery was a cold slab resting against her side, from inside a pocket she sewn into her cloak. Ingrid pulled the lion medallion out, it's dull glimmer turned red by the flames of the fire. It was no bigger than a copper coin, and about as heavy. This lion in particular reared up, ready to maim whomever got in its way.

The unofficial symbol of Fearghus, the lion stood for more than ferocity, but also courage, bravery, military might. All of it heavy-handed symbolism Ingrid couldn’t put stock in anymore than she might a horoscope. Though why Dorothea insisted she bring it with her was something her mind could mull for hours, if she let it.

Four hours slipped by with nothing else but the distant hooting of owls, the redundant song of crickets. She gave Byleth's shoulder a gentle nudge, their luminous green eyes catching hers for a moment before they rose. Ingrid turned away,

She gathered her sleeping roll, bundled herself up and shut her eyes, back to Byleth who stared off into the surrounding woods.

The ground, cold and hard as it was, held a strange familiarity to it; her mind inevitably wandering back to her mad three-day ride to Garreg Mach, how she snatched sleep in fits of two hours or less. Now, with less urgency upon her, sleep continued to remain a fickle thing.

The fire had died, and she knew Byleth had no intention of starting one again. Bundled in her cloak, she shivered and forced her thoughts to ponder other things than the chill wind that picked at her.

Somehow, she managed to fall asleep. Ingrid woke to Byleth giving her shoulder a gentle shove. Where they slept had already been cleared of any trace they were there at all. Ingrid talked Byleth into another small fire, if only so they could indulge in tea before continuing their journey.

The two of them gathered their things and horses in silence, setting off not much later. The second day passed much like the first did: next to no talking, a small fire, a cold dinner of hard cheese and bread. (Ingrid wasn't unfamiliar with rationing the rations.)

The third day brought rain. Miserable, wet and cold, the two of them trudged on to Somerled. The road there was lined with abandoned farms, some scorched, all with their thatched roofs falling into the buildings. Dead grass lined the fields. A cow carcass poked through the weeds, flies a black cloud above.

Ingrid shared an uneasy look with Byleth, urged Loog to trot a little faster. The air around the road had grown malevolent, and she wasn't one for overstaying her welcome.

"What happened here?" She didn't realize she spoke aloud until Byleth replied.

"Could be the work of the man we seek."

The thought had her lip curling. The brazen disregard for others was a cruel thing she couldn't wrap her head around.

"Then good thing we're hunting him." Ingrid muttered darkly.

Somerled was a small village, barely worth being on the map. The most noteworthy building was an inn, _The Emperor's Grace_. Ingrid doubted whether the villagers knew who ruled them now, so far away from Enbarr as they were. And she knew it only had an inn because of its proximity to a major roadway.

Villagers stopped what they were doing to shoot them distrustful glances. Children halted their play to oggle their horses (especially Rowan) and Ingrid's armour. Most had the brains to keep out of the way. They lead their horses down through the village. There were no roads, only dirt paths with horrible ruts in them; if the village had anything resembling carriages or wagons, Ingrid had yet to see one. Unlike the farms, the houses there were in better repair. What made the farmers abandon their livelihood was beyond her, of course. Any answers she might get wouldn’t be coming from the villagers.

_The Emperor’s Grace_ loomed around a corner, sitting beside a dingy building Ingrid assumed was their general store. The inn had the distinction of being the biggest building in Somerled. A two-storey affair with an actual roof and not just thatching, even if it did miss a shingle here or there. And, on the other side of it, a stable big enough for three horses.

Byleth and Ingrid slipped off their steeds, Byleth trudging forward in search of a stable hand to pass their horses off to. Ingrid hung back, holding on to the reins of Loog and Rowan. Loog had the sense to stay back from the stallion, who anxiously pawed the ground as they waited.

She took the opportunity to glance around the village. People milled about, pretending to ignore the stranger visitors though she caught the furtive glances shot her way. The sullen faces on the passersby told Ingrid all she needed to know: there was truth to the rumours of bandits, at the very least, heckling Somerled and other small towns and villages. The bulk of them trudged towards homes. Not a single light flickered from within, despite the growing darkness of the dying day.

Byleth returned then, and Ingrid passed Rowan’s reins over.

“Have you noticed anything… strange about this place?” She asked them.

“Other than the fact that everyone is cagey and running for their homes?” Byleth replied, stopping before a shaggy-haired youth. The boy said nothing as he took their horses away, offered nothing other than a hollow stare.

_The Emperor's Grace_ was no doubt the most lavish building in Somerled, with fresh sawdust tossed on the floorboards and a decent fireplace at the other end of the room. A couple men sat at tables, eyeing the two of them. Given their clothes, they might have been workmen. Byleth's hand drifted to their knife belt, and if they were anywhere else Ingrid would have cautioned them against the action.

The innkeeper bustled out of the kitchens. He was a small, ferret-like man with dark, beady eyes. His smile fell off his face when he saw Ingrid and Byleth standing there.

"May I help you?" He asked in a tone that suggested he'd rather eat his own hand. The reception didn't surprise Ingrid, what with the baleful looks they received on their way to the inn. Byleth could slice the tension in the room with that knife of theirs.

"A room, if you have it." She said with what she hoped was a winsome smile. Better she did the talking than Byelth, who was ready to use their belt knife at the slightest provocation.

"Sorry, ain't got any left. Full up." The innkeep said, wiping a glass with a dirty rag. Somehow, she doubted that.

"The stable would be fine." Byleth said, blinking. The innkeep stopped cleaning the beer stein to give Byleth a proper look. The shock of green hair, and their unnaturally light eyes gave the innkeep pause. His eyes bounced between them and Ingrid, before settling on her. Easier to look at than her accomplice, no doubt.

"Two silver pieces a night, extra if you want food." He said, setting the stein down to start rubbing away at another. He used the same rag.

"Very well." Byleth reached for the coin purse tucked into their belt before Ingrid could stop them.

"Anything else for you, sers?" The innkeep wore his distrust like a shroud.

"We're looking for information, actually." Byleth slid two silver coins towards him. He wasted no time in collecting it.

"Aye, that'll cost you." He leaned on the bar table, the dim light casting severe shadows on his gaunt face. They were likely to blow their entire budget on the tightwad. Ingrid made her hand a fist, took a breath, released it.

"That won't be--" She began.

"Is Somerled having trouble with bandits? Any other village or town, too?" Byleth cut her off before she could finish. She shot daggers at the back of their light green head. The demeanour of the innkeep changed completely at the mention of bandits. Someone behind them dropped a utensil, the clatter a dull sound.

“Aye, and if we are?” His beady eyes measured them from head to toe, unwilling to reveal anything to complete strangers, and potential threats.

“That’s why we’re here, to stop them.” Ingrid added. No sense in revealing they were sent by the Emperor--they probably wouldn’t believe them anyway. After a beat, the man nodded his head as if coming to a conclusion.

“I suppose if you were in with that lot you’d have shoved that knife of yours in my throat by now.”

Byleth blinked, realized where their hand was, and let it drop to their side.

“Then is there anything you can tell us?” Ingrid asked, stepping forward. “Do you know who’s leading these bandits?”

“Don’t know who’s sending them, but they’ve taken to shaking us down for money and food every week. What with the war going on, I suppose it’s just a matter of survival for them, but for us it's costing us dearly.” A sad shake of his head, and he returned to his murky beer steins. “They typically come by the end of the week like clockwork, though.” Tomorrow, then. Ingrid gave a sigh. Everything felt like a useless chase, ending in doubt or dead ends.

“Thank you,” She said. “That’s all for now.” Byleth passed him another silver coin, but it did little to curry favour. They left _The Emperor’s Grace_, and headed for the stables.

“There’s nothing else left to do but wait.” Ingrid said.

"I'm afraid not." Byleth replied. Something close to a grimace grew on their face.

So they frittered a day away, much to Ingrid’s ire. Wandering away from the stables seemed to her a poor choice, but staying made her restless. (She’d taken to worrying at the silver lion medallion.) Byleth read from a tiny, dark book when they weren’t mysteriously gone. Ingrid wanted to ask, but she felt she might not want to know the answer. The thick woods surrounding Somerled penned them in like so much livestock, with only the road they rode in on showing any escape. You didn’t live in a place like Somerled without learning how to walk among trees, though.

By dusk, Byleth returned, rousing Ingrid from her lethargy. Her limbs ached for action; she was tired of waiting.

“We should wait by the main road.” They said, gathering their axe from their saddlebags. She supposed a knife would be a poor defense against greedy bandits. Ingrid got to her feet, grabbed her lance and followed Byleth outside of the stables.

“Alm mentioned the bandits typically come from the north.” Alm must be the innkeep, and that’s where they must have disappeared to. Curious that they left Ingrid behind to languish away in the stable. But the north? They wander past Somerled and they’d be entering Faerghus, and the borders of Magdred Way. And Alfric’s lands. Ingrid swallowed down her hurt pride.

“How many?” Gloom took hold of Somerled, much like the day before. The clouds remained too, and a light drizzle of rain made everything that much more miserable.

Byleth gave a shrug, looping the axe into their belt, albeit a little awkwardly. The villagers gave baleful looks at their weapons and ushered themselves away, or inside.

“I’d expect maybe four, possibly six men if Alm is to be believed.”

“And we’re to fight all of them?” Incredulity entered Ingrid’s tone. Surely they didn’t expect them to fend off an entire group by themselves.

“No, not all. Bandit’s are ruled by one thing, and it isn’t loyalty.” Byleth replied smoothly. “We take care of who’s leading the group and the rest should scatter.” Somehow, Ingrid doubted it would be that easy, or neat.

They headed out of the village, walked for a good half-mile before finding a copse of scraggly trees to await their prey. The rain came down harder, and Ingrid wished she brought her cloak. Byleth had the sense to bring theirs, the hood of it drawn over, shrouding their face in shadow. Their mouth was a tight line.

“What if Alm is wrong?” Ingrid said into the quiet. She slid her gaze from Byleth, to the bleak horizon. Not even a bird sang. With a look up at the sky, she wagered they had maybe an hour of daylight left. The copse they stood in offered poor protection from the rain.

“Then he is wrong, and the bandits get what they came for.” Byleth shifted their weight from one foot to the other, hand drifting to the axe hanging from their belt. A crude wood axe, but sharp enough. Dread loomed over her, far more suffocating than any cloak could ever be. She did not care much for Byleth’s blase attitude.

Indistinct shouting erupted from the horizon then, startling them both to attention. Dread wrapped itself tighter around her. She adjusted the grip on her lance. The rapid sound of hooves hitting mud, more hooting--the bandits had arrived for their toll. Byleth glided out from the copse of trees, and into the middle of the road. The bandits steadily grew upon the horizon.

“What are you doing?” She hissed, stepping out from the trees. Byleth was likely to get run over in the men’s mad dash for Somerled.

The men on their horses drew closer, louder. She could see them clearly now, in their rough-shod armour. Long knives, or rusted swords hung from their belts. The one riding in front had a worn buckler on his arm. And still, Byleth stood there. If anything, their presence only added to the bandit’s excitement. They raised their hand, and Ingrid understood.

Their hand gave a twitch, tugged at some invisible force. The earth before the charging horses heaved upwards in a shower of dirt and rock, forcing four of them to bring their charge to a halt, and sending the other two sprawling. Screams, from men and horse alike, replaced the frenzied hollering from before. So this was how Byleth meant to deal with them: with magic, with brimstone and earth.

The scene settled after what seemed too long. Ingrid had never seen such power before, not at that magnitude. She gaped at the sight in front of her: the road had been rendered a mess with a mass stabbing out, and cracks cascading from the epicenter. One of the men didn’t get back up again, pinned under a horse. Ingrid swallowed hard and forced her attention at the bandits who did remain. The man wearing the buckler rode around the chunk of earth protruding up out of the ground, his face a mask of fury. Two other men followed him, though several shades meeker. The other two stayed behind, throwing uneasy glances at their fallen companion. Neither checked on him.

“Who the fuck are you?” He demanded. He was ghastly pale, with hair almost as crimson as fire. Freckles splashed across his pasty complexion, dark brown eyes filled with anger, indignation at their audacity. Being told no probably wasn’t something he took very well.

“It doesn’t matter,” Byleth said calmly. He might as well have been the innkeeper for all the change in tone they had. “Either way, we’re here to stop you.” Ingrid stepped onto the road and to Byleth’s side.

“Henderson, come on! Just kill them already.” Came a voice from the left. One of the two bandits who had followed Henderson around the mound of rock jutting from the road. Henderson’s attention broke from them for a moment as he glanced over at his accomplice.

“I’d like to see these two cunts try and stop me.” Something like a sneer grew on his face, an ugly sight. He drew closer to the both of them. Byleth was an immovable object, hand resting on the hilt of their axe all the while. Ingrid readied herself as subtly as she could; shifted her feet just so, adjusted her grip slightly.

“Your friends are cowards.” She said. Cowards if they couldn’t be bothered to join Henderson in facing them. Cowards if they hung back, afraid of whatever else Byleth might conjure. They were five feet and some change, and maybe a hundred and ten, yet still they were afraid.

“Excuse me?” He seethed, ready to erupt. He towered over Ingrid by a hand and a half, though his kind didn’t truly scare her. Half the time they were all talk, all bluster and false bravado. Besides, anger made one sloppy in combat, and his “friends” weren’t jumping to his defense any time soon. Though the one who hollered took several steps forward. Byleth’s display had worked wonders, but even that had its limits.

“Two against one hardly seems fair.” Fury blossomed on Henderson’s face, his face growing puce with it. Ingrid knew his strike was coming before he could raise his fist. She hopped to the right, Henderson’s momentum almost sending himself tumbling. Henderson recovered from his blunder, rounding on Byleth and Ingrid. A sword was in his hand, dark intent in his eyes.

The rain and the growing darkness didn’t swing things in their favour. Byleth had their arm held out, as if ready to cast magic. Ingrid had only her lance, and courage. Henderson slashed at Ingrid with his sword, a wide blow she ducked under. His rage bolstered nothing, made his attacks close to lazy. With a yell, he took another slash at Byleth. Time seemed to slow, then. Grew thick, like a jelly. Ingrid lifted her arm, and stabbed, the point of her lance sinking into his lower back. Byleth fell backwards with a cry, landing roughly on their side.

Henderson stopped.

His sword fell from his trembling hand. He stumbled for a step, then fell. Ingrid’s attention wasn’t focused on him, but Byleth who staggered out of the mud.  
  
“Are you all right?” She continued to stare at them, wide-eyed, unsure. The brief burst of action was all the incentive the rest of the bandits needed. Three of them collected what bravery they had and rushed towards them with shaky battle cries.

Byleth tossed their hand out again, the ground beneath their feet rumbling, parts of it rising up underneath the bandits into small boulders they hurled in their general direction. One of those small boulders struck a bandit in the middle, tossing him back from where he came.

They other two closed the distance and rushed them. Ingrid parried a blow, then another, the force of which raced up her arms. A familiar pain started in her shin, but she pushed through it. The man attacking her slipped in the mud, fell on his back unceremoniously. Ingrid stabbed him in the throat just in time to move out of the way of the remaining bandit. The tip of his blade kissed her cheek. Byleth tackled him, and they became tangled in the muck. A kick from the bandit forced Byleth away, where they gasped for air.

He rose to his feet, sword in hand, ready to finish off Byleth where they lay. Ingrid jabbed at him, a bid for his attention, a bid to buy Byleth time to recover. It worked; he moved out of the way, intent now on her.

She braced herself for his attack. The man lobbed a blow to her left. She weaved to the right, brought the end of her lance against his temple. The force had him staggering backwards long enough for her to bring the point of her lance into his gut. With a gurgle, he crumpled to the ground. Shakily, Byleth clambered to their feet with Ingrid’s help. Their hood had fallen, and mud splattered their cloak, clothes, even parts of their hair.

Fighting most of the bandit coterie wasn’t something Ingrid had wanted to do, and yet their bodies lay scattered before them. Ingrid’s breath came fast and heavy, and she did her best to ignore the insistent pain in her leg. Goddess, what a forsaken mess.

Night had fallen, and the rain began to stop. Moonlight filtered through the clouds, though it was barely enough light.

“Are you all right?” Ingrid asked again. She ran her eyes over them, unable to tell if they had any injuries or not.

“I am, considering you did most of the fighting.” Byleth gave them a half-smile, or the ghost of one, before walking past and over to Henderson’s body.

Byleth knelt by Henderson, moved him on his back. He groaned.

Ingrid and Byleth shot each other a look.

“He’s alive.” A statement more than a question. She limped over to them, though she did not kneel.

Byleth’s hand gave Henderson’s cheek quick taps in an effort to bring him to. His brown eyes rolled about, then blinked before settling on Byleth. They were hazy, unfocused. How he wasn’t dead was nothing short of a miracle.

“Who sent you to raid Somerled?” Byleth had their arm braced on a knee. “Help us, and I can heal you. I know faith magic.” Ingrid’s eyes snapped from Henderson, to them. Since when? Something about it had Ingrid feeling off, uneasy.

“Fuck off,” Henderson spat, his voice a stuttering mess. Even on the edge of death, he remained bitter and spiteful.

“Is this how you want to die?” Byleth pressed. “In the mud, surrounded by the dead bodies of your cohort?”

“Byleth,” Ingrid’s voice became an insistent thing, bordering on a plead to forget him, forget this entire mess. It went ignored. Henderson coughed and spat, eyes burning with anger, or fever.

“An old fuck,” He relented then, an admission of defeat if Ingrid’s near-fatal blow wasn’t enough of one. “Al something or other. From Faerghus.”

"Alfric." Ingrid supplied, voice deadened. Henderson gave a weak nod.

Byleth leaned back on their heels, the only reaction they had to the confirmation. Even if they had known it from the start, even if they knew Alfric was about the only culprit, outside of hunger or desperation, the news still struck Ingrid to her core. Perhaps she expected better from people she used to consider comrades-at-arms.

“Thank you, Henderson.” Byleth said, voice close to a whisper. Something small and silver darted out of their sleeve, and into his throat. He gave a choked gurgle, brown eyes blown wide. Ingrid found herself only able to stare. Byleth rose to their feet, the hidden dagger returned from wherever it came.

"You don't know faith magic, do you?" It felt stupid to ask now, what with Henderson’s dead body laying at their feet, maggot-white skin slick with rain and bright with moonlight. The rain beat a steady tattoo upon the leather brigandine wore. Bile rose in Ingrid's throat, she had to look away, to look at any thing else other than that man's dead body. But wherever she looked, another one dotted the ruined road. She could not escape the senseless brutality.

Then Byleth had the axe in their hands.

Now she knew why they brought it. It was never for firewood, but a purpose far more sinister. Dismay filled her gut, horrid thoughts of what Byleth planned to do with that axe floated through the disgust and revulsion clouding her mind.

"Look away, Ingrid." Byleth said, soft as a sigh.

"What are you going to do with that axe?" Ingrid couldn't hide the mounting horror in her voice. She stepped between them and Henderson, as if that simple act would change Byleth's mind. But their dead eyes slipped from Ingrid's, to the body on the ground. His eyes stared up at nothing at all.

"Alfric will want proof, will he not?" Byleth continued, forcing Ingrid to focus on them. Their flat expression betrayed nothing of their intent.

"Proof of what?" Her voice grew high, panicked, part of her hating it. Made her feel like a child, begging their father not to leave.

"I plan to take this man's head as proof we know what Alfric is doing." They said evenly, as if they were discussing the weather and nothing more.

"You will not."

"Does Alfric strike you as a man to take you at your word?"

They took Ingrid's silence for an answer. Really, she couldn't think of a smart reply. Alfric wouldn't even take Henderson alive as proof. He'd deny it still even then. The truth of it was a heavy thing.

"I figured as much. Now please, look away if you don't care for what I'm doing." Byleth raised the terrible axe, meant to bring it down, but Ingrid's hand shot out and grabbed their wrist. They were incredibly strong, and she had a mind to use her other hand.

"Let go." They said, their gaze turning from Henderson to her. There was no warmth in it, only cold rage.

"It's bad enough we lied to him. We don't need to desecrate his body!" There was no valor or honor in telling a man one thing, and doing another.

"Enough! Do you think he would care so much about your corpse as you do his?" Ingrid's grip slipped. She let go, Byleth taking care to lower the weapon with control. It wasn’t her they meant to maim.

"I'm sorry. I don't relish what I need to do, either. Remember that." With their flat voice and flat stare, Ingrid had a hard time believing it. All she could do was watch on in frozen horror as Byleth raised the wicked axe, hefted a blow. Ingrid flinched, forced herself to look away when Byleth raised the axe again. The sound of it was the worst part. One strike wasn't enough with their one-handed approach, but she surely wasn't going to step in and take over.

Countless battles, countless fights, and its this that reduces her to swallowing back bile. In the name of her King and country, she’s killed men before: lance through the throat or eye, sword to the ribs, yet nothing could come close to the butchery of Henderson.

Getting the head in a burlap sack was another matter that couldn't be flubbed with just one hand. With empty apologies, Byleth wheedled Ingrid's help who gagged as she pushed the head into the fabric bag.

Neither of them spoke when they returned to the stable. The congratulations of the villagers was a short parade of thank-yous and claps on the shoulder. It was only five men they fended off, but to them it might as well have been an entire army.

That night, she did not sleep. She couldn't, not with the head so close by. It was as if the dead eyes were staring at her through the fabric, accusingly. The sickening sound of axe hitting flesh seemed to echo in her ears, the images burned themselves into her memories; that cold, detached way with which Byleth carried it out, the unflinching stare; the way their victim looked up, up at nothing but empty sky. What they did that day certainly didn't hinder Byleth's sleep. Their small frame lay cloaked in darkness across the stable from her, half-cape a crumpled pillow.

Axe on flesh on bone. She rammed her eyes shut, a kaleidoscope of colours dancing across her lids.

Ingrid turned on her side, her back to them. Much easier not having to look at them, at least for her peace of mind.

Axe on flesh on bone. She curled in on herself, wrapping her cloak closer. Her body shuddered. Hay continued to poke and jab. Her leg ached, but she found she couldn't bring herself to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no, byleth is not an earth-bender. :p 
> 
> im basing their magic off of headcanon, and musings generated from dorothea's meteor spell. how else would one summon a mass of rock and dirt then... from... bringing it up from the earth itself?


	5. and, we disappear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, Ingrid and Byleth confront Alfric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for suicidal ideation in this chapter
> 
> thank you once again for everyone's continued patience! writing this has been an incredible learning process for me, as i've never written a long fic before. i can only hope that i'm getting better as i go along with this.
> 
> november came and went and before i knew it, i was staring down the middle of december with only some half-assembled notes to show for it. i got my ass in gear this week and i'm so so happy i was able to write this all out. i have a lot of things on my plate, as always, and i'm afraid i don't see an update coming for oathbreaker until the new year.
> 
> however, please drop by and say hi on twitter @verytinysammy where i post near-daily updates on oathbreaker and other fun writing things.

The world opened up, dark and bleak and desolate. Moonlight filtered down weakly, in thin bars, through cracks in the clouds. Ingrid was alone and she was dreaming. She only knew this because everything was out of focus, hazy around the edges like it rode the peripheral of her vision. Ahead of her lay the road Byleth ruined hours ago, the jagged peak of their destruction scratching the sky.

But the bodies of the men were nowhere to be found. In any other place but a dream, that would have been concerning. She found she did not care, could not, no matter how unsettling everything else was.

A shadowy figure stepped out from the darkness, terrible in it's familiarity. They were as silent as the night itself, their green eyes close to glowing in the dark. Byleth. Ingrid found she couldn't move, as if her feet had sprout roots in that moment.

Cold seeped into her limbs, inch by inch, as several arms seemingly grew out of the muck; hands grabbing, clutching. A voice in the back of her mind told her she should remember who those hands belonged to. Ingrid never did see the bodies of the men she killed left on the road, these hands holding her must be theirs.

Something glittered in Byleth's hand, caught by the dull glow of moonlight. The dagger they ended Henderson with. Terrible intent shone clear on their face despite the darkness. The thud of Ingrid's heart began to hammer in her ears. She could not move, no matter how she struggled. 

Byleth seemed to glide more than walk towards her, skin a pasty white, like maggots. Like Henderson, staring up at nothing with eyes glazed over. 

Byleth stood in front of her, face blank as always, empty and devoid of anything human. Searching the lighthouse-bright eyes gave Ingrid no answers.

The hands holding her to the spot did not loosen their grip. She knew then what they meant to do. A part of her recoiled, a part of her gave in. Joining Henderson and his men seemed a karmic debt, and why shouldn't she pay it?

Besides, death wasn't scary. Not really. Some days she found herself wishing she were dead. Mostly, she wondered why Edelgard didn't kill her when she arrived at Garreg Mach. 

Living was a certain kind of punishment, and Ingrid was nothing if not repentant.

Ingrid opened her mouth to speak, say something, but the dagger was a flash and her throat was all too easy to slice open. Blood poured from the wound, a river. Too much, she thought, for her body to hold. It seemed the colour of it reflected back in Byleth's glassy stare. 

The world beneath her feet quaked, tilted, as she fell through the muck to join the searching hands pulling her under. She did not fight. Darkness filled her vision, a quiet roaring filled her ears, before it came to a sudden stop and then-- 

She woke with a start.

The stable was dark, though she could see the beginnings of dawn from where she lay. The nightmare was seared into her mind like afterimage, gracing her every time she closed her eyes. She shuddered, her heart hung heavy over Henderson’s death--not because she mourned the death of a good man, but because no one deserved that fate.

Ingrid lay there for what felt like a small eternity, willing herself to simply forget the dream. Morning came with little fanfare. It was bleak and grey like all the other mornings before it. She heard Byleth rousing on the other side of the stable, and rose herself. Forcing herself to her feet, she gathered her cloak. Bits of straw clung to them, and they both spent a good minute shooing it off their clothes and cloaks. They did not speak.

Ingrid's head swam with exhaustion that threatened to pull her back down onto the hay. She'd give anything to be anywhere but there. A warm bed, for starters. Back home, away from this headache and nonsense, mainly. (Was it truly home anymore, under the auspices of one of Edelgard's cronies?) In silence, they gathered their horses and prepared them for riding. Ingrid assisted Byleth with getting the saddle and reins onto their stallion. They murmured quiet thanks. Ingrid only nodded in return, unable to meet their gaze.

The head in a bag rested against Rowan's flank, the bottom of which was a grimy dark stain. The burlap sack would move with every stray twitch of Rowan's tail, or movement of his leg, like the head was trying to chew its way out. With a shudder, she turned to Loog and found solace in her quiet strength and solidity.

"We ride for Torsten." Byleth said into the quiet. Torsten wasn't too far from Somerled. A day's ride, if that. Ingrid nodded her head, pretending to busy herself with Loog's saddle strap. Ruminating on the dream, or the events of the night prior would do her no credit. Neither would the tiredness weighing her down. Ingrid moved her thoughts onto better things, better people, like Dorothea and the tiny moments they stole together.

The slow creak of the stable doors told her Byleth tired of waiting, of staying past their welcome. Any other time, Ingrid would be hot on their heels but now she found herself wanting to do anything else.

The two of them left Somerled, heading north into the borderlands of Faerghus. They were not decorated in Empire colours and should, theoretically, enter without much fuss.

Cold air wrapped around the two of them, heavy like a cloak. Byleth rode in front again, and Ingrid found it hard to look at anything else but the sack bouncing against Rowan's thigh.

Ingrid remembered Torsten, however wispy those memories were. She was a child, traveling with her father for one reason or another, mesmerized by the longhouse where all the adults gathered, with it's thatched roof and walls of wattle and daub, the hanging tapestries and tall braziers aflame. Anders had shooed her out, anger plain on his face, but wonder still gripped her; she hadn't cared. If she were perhaps a boy, maybe she would have been invited to sit beside her father and learn the intricacies of diplomacy. As it were, she wasn't much else besides a bargaining chip to restore the family name. (Sometimes, she often thought how different life would have been if she wasn't born with a Crest at all.)

Torsten probably hadn't changed much, despite the years between her first visit and now. The longhouse where Alfric conducted his business would be in the middle of it all, with everything else spiraling around it. The center of the universe, and to those living there, it really was. Might be that Torsten even grew where Somerled remained a dot on the map. It did have more opportunities for trade, between the Empire and the Holy Kingdom as it was... before the war. Now, with trade at an embargo, it's only hope of exporting lumber would be back to the Kingdom proper.

By midday, Byleth had turned Rowan off to the side of the dirt road. Ingrid pulled up, remembering their stallion's need for space and dominance.

"Ingrid," They said as they slipped off their horse. "let's rest a while. Not much longer until we reach Torsten."

She cast a glance up the road, as if she could see the town from where they were. She expected there was more to Byleth's sudden need for a rest, though she didn't ask. Ingrid hunched up her shoulders against the bitter wind that picked up. The old pain in her leg began to taunt her.

"How are we going to get an audience with Alfric?" She asked. Her eyes darted to Byleth, to Rowan, to the grass crushed beneath her boots. Surely they couldn't waltz right in and expect the man to listen to them. Byleth had actually chuckled, a weird sound coming from them.

"I wrote ahead. It's why you didn't seem me very much yesterday." The mirth the chuckle brought died a pathetic death, their voice trailing off. "There were... _things_ I had to take care of."

"Things you couldn't include me in?" Ingrid shot back, remembering how she sat in the stable waiting. How stupid it made her feel, how foolish; why didn't she leave and look for them? Byleth at least had the decency to look abashed, a dusting of colour spreading across their cheeks. The more time she spent with them, the more she realized their displays of emotions were incredibly muted. Like a flame being smothered, a flame not given enough air to feed on.

"I should have told you at the very least." They admitted, green eyes finding hers. It was always so damned hard to look away; their eyes were deep pools you struggled not to drown in. Ingrid could only grit her teeth, blow air through her nose because it was either that or lose her temper over something infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things. She didn't feel much different from a glorified prisoner of war, with Byleth as her keeper. And yet, and yet... "I'm sorry, Ingrid." 

A beat of silence passed before Ingrid gathered herself to speak again.

"Last night," She began, steeling her voice. It would not quiver or shake nor break; she would not let it. "It was hard not to see you differently."

"I know." The abrupt change in topic didn't faze them. "And if I could take it back, I would."

Something in her softened at that. As monotone and flat as they were, Byleth _did_ mean what they said. The sincerity read loud and clear.

"I suppose it's hard for me to reconcile what I saw last night with the person I came to know at Garreg Mach." Again, she was reminded what people were forced to do when put in corners or given no alternatives. Byleth remained quiet, as if sensing Ingrid had more to add.

"Be patient with me, that's all I ask." Ingrid scrubbed a hand over her face, feeling bone-tired, scrapped raw. However hard it was not to think of Henderson, or what Byleth done, she'd have to try. 

"So long as you do the same." Byleth offered a half-smile. With an uneasy sigh, Ingrid suggested having something to eat.

They had a quick meal of bread and water, gave the horses a breather and resumed their northward march. Conversation was sparse, as it was the days previous. There remained a hint of reservation on Ingrid's part, even if compartmentalizing Byleth with their actions the night before became easier. Byleth admitted they had no intention of staying the night at Torsten, even if they could push on ahead. Given what they were sent to do, Ingrid quietly agreed.

Dusk replaced the afternoon, and Byleth led them off the path to a stream not too far from the road. They settled in for the night, with Byleth making another small fire. There were no trees to guard them, only the water at their back. 

Ingrid sat uncomfortably on a overturned log, fiddling with the lion medallion again. She wanted to find a leather cord so she could wear it like a necklace, or at least fasten it to her person a bit more securely than pushing it into a pocket and hoping for the best. A part of her chided herself in overthinking the gesture. The lion wasn't a piece of jewellery someone like Dorothea would wear, and it was an animal symbol of her home. But was it so bad to think it meant _something_?

A thought occurred to Ingrid then.

"I have something to confess." She said, elbows braced on her knees. Byleth sat opposite her, half-cape removed and folded by their side. They regarded Ingrid with a curious look. With the way their hand fidgeted, she got the impression they were restless and in want of something to occupy themselves with. Sitting still was close to torture, or so it seemed.

"There has been someone I've been trying to find," Ingrid continued. Crickets chirruped in the bushes around them, oblivious to anything beyond their small world. "Someone I haven't seen since... my accident." Mercedes, who didn't exactly have a permanent address. Or who didn't know where she was, either. And whom she hadn't heard from in quiet some time.

"I take it they're important to you. At least important enough to warrant keeping an eye out." Byleth met her eyes over the fire, a placid look on their face. Shadows danced across their face with every lazy dance of the flames. The statement gave Ingrid pause. Of course Mercedes was important to her. She cherished their friendship, what little of it they had. But the nature of their relationship wouldn't--and as it was becoming increasingly clear to her, couldn't--go beyond that. Worry still chased her thoughts whenever Mercedes crossed her mind, and probably always would until she could lay them to rest. But the truth of the matter was this: Mercedes more than likely wandered off into the ruins of the Leicester Alliance, despite Ingrid's protests. There would be no way to know, unless she got leave to return to Galatea County to check for letters on a whim. Which wouldn't happen. 

"I didn't expect her to be in either Somerled or Torsten, but..." Ingrid felt foolish for wanting it all the same. How convenient and easy that would have been, like something straight out of her book of legends. 

"You couldn't help hoping all the same."

"Something like that, yes." Ingrid sighed. It was close enough to the truth, and she'd had enough of talking.

"Get some rest. I'll take first watch."

Ingrid stepped up and off the log, then gathered her cloak in a rough approximation of a blanket. She wasn't sure if sleep would come, but it couldn't hurt to try.

The next day came with clouds not threatening to split right open over their heads. Light and fluffy, in direct contrast to the thunderheads rolling in from the west. Ingrid was marveling at them when Byleth snapped her to attention.

"No need to stop anywhere other than the longhouse." They said, fussing with a strap on Rowan's saddlebag. Ingrid walked over and finished adjusting it, with Byleth murmuring thanks.

"Then we're leaving as quick as we're coming." Ingrid gave the strap one final tug, then returned to Loog who whickered impatiently. As mild as she was, the mare hated to be kept waiting when she had her saddle and harness on. Ingrid got on Loog's harness, doing her best to ignore the tiredness making her limbs feel heavy.

"It's for the best, I wager." In a surprisingly fluid motion, Byleth slid onto Rowan's saddle. They cut a handsome figure in their half-cape with red lining, the dark breeches and flowing top. Ingrid couldn't help but bark a dark laugh at that. Yes, running would be in their best interest, lest Alfric call reinforcements down upon their unsuspecting heads.

By mid-morning, Torsten tumbled into view. An adorable town with green-thatched houses and a mill rushing on the far end of it. She saw it more than heard it. Torsten, at least, was in higher spirits than Somerled though it wasn't hard to imagine why. People here didn't seem to be deciding between stabbing them or robbing them, for starters. And of course, in the center of it all: the longhouse, with it's slightly bowed walls making one think of a boat. While they garnered a few curious looks, no one stopped their business to meddle in theirs. Almost as if they got people on horseback coming in often, as if the two of them weren't entirely out of the ordinary.

Byleth and Ingrid exchanged looks before hopping off their mounts. With a wave of their hand, they gestured for Ingrid to bring Loog to where they stood, by a post to tie their horses to. Ingrid gave the peaceful town a final look before following Byleth into the building.

The central aisle of the building was were Alfric held his audiences, no doubt for pomp and ceremony. The other rooms were closed off. Braziers lit the inside of the longhouse, bathing everything in a hearty orange. Even this far south, Faerghus border towns grew chilly that time of year. The air in the longhouse was stale, stuffy almost, though she was sure the ample smoke roofs were doing their job. The same banners lined the walls from her childhood, except for one distinct change. Adrestia and Leicester banners no longer adorned them. Besides that, nothing had truly changed after all, besides the man sitting at the end of the hall. Alfric sat at the far end, in his chair that would be a throne. Armed men flanked either side of him, a guard for the weasel. Byleth carried Henderson's head, walked towards them with no hesitation in their step. Ingrid could only follow, like a dog after its master.

The sooner they got this business over, the sooner they could put it all behind them. Alfric sat up in his chair, appraised them from down his nose with a cool regard. The man wore a red coat, lavish in its embellishments, paired off with a pair of black breeches and a handsome set of leather boots. None of what he wore was cheap. 

"I take it you're the one who sent that little letter?" His voice echoed in the space, close to grandiose if it wasn't so thin and reedy. The building was curiously empty besides them, Alfric, and his two guards. _Less eyes meant less mouths,_ she thought.

"Indeed." Byleth replied coolly. The fist holding the head tightened, knuckles straining white. Alfric's eyes lighted at the sack, curiosity taking over what composure the man had.

"What do we have here?" He asked, nodding towards it. If he only knew.

"A gift, my lord." Byleth even offered a half-curtsy. Ingrid did not do the same. Her leg would not let her anyway. Alfric grew with something close to pride at the mention of a "gift".

"By all means." He said with an awful smile. Ingrid had seen prettier smiles on corpses. 

"Consider this fair warning." Byleth tossed the sack towards Alfric, where Henderson's head slapped against the foot of the great wooden chair, rolling to a stop a bit away from him. His ghastly eye peeked out, seemed to stare accusingly at Ingrid. She could almost hear him hiss, _this is all your fault_. A muscle in her jaw twitched. Alfric stared for a long moment, growing paler by the second.

"You've been a busy man, my lord." Byleth intoned; a note of boredom crept in. "Though I suppose it's been your lackeys that were busy. You're just pointing the finger."

Judging by the look of him, he'd rather eat his own foot than be there, caught with his hand in the larder. Byleth took the silence as a gesture to continue speaking. Fear and rage warred on Alfric's face, his eyes bouncing between the two of them like he didn't know where to look: the green-haired monster, or their pale shadow.The men on either side of Alfric grew restless, caught between jumping to action and waiting for Alfric's call. Their armor was little more than leather padding and ill-fitted helmets. More stooges he paid off, this Ingrid was sure of.

"Fair warning for what?" Alfric sneered, lip curling at the sight laying on the floor of his longhouse. He paid Ingrid little heed.

"Henderson told us everything, Alfric." Byleth pressed, hand rising to rest on the hilt of their belt knife. Ingrid fought the compulsion to rest a warning hand on their elbow; little good it would do. When they made up their mind, they went and did it regardless of what anyone else thought.

"Hard to imagine, what with his head laying before me." He was a fool to think he could lie and cheat his way out of ownership.

"We are here as a courtesy, and nothing more." Ingrid offered, swallowing thickly.

"As she said. We'll be on our way now." Byleth's hand still rested on the dagger's hilt, and the tension in their body suggested otherwise.

Alfric laughed at them, a terrible rasp that grated her ears.

"Bold of you to assume either of you will be leaving this hall." With a jerk of his head, he motioned to his guards. Chaos erupted then, with Ingrid wrenching free her lance and Byleth slipping past the guards.

She parried a blow from one of his men, the force of it sending a jolt down her arms and causing her to step back. She readied herself to retaliate, but Alfric's reedy voice broke through the frenzy.

"Stop! Stop!" A dagger pressed itself against the exposed flesh of his neck. Byleth didn't need their other arm to force him to cooperate. Alfric's eyes grew wide, pleading, as he begged his men to do something, and it's with a hollow sadness Ingrid realizes their allegiance was never to him, only coin.

Once more, she was reduced to watching on in horror as a familiar scene played out. Byleth held all the cards, called all the shots. Alfric was bargaining with the wrong people when it was them he should have been courting favour with. Did they have to resort to barbarism?

"Don't do it." Ingrid begged. Byleth's eyes slid over to her, flat, dead. The air grew funny. Thick, like a miasma, much like it did last night then they fought all those bandits. As if time had slowed, or distorted and stretched out into a hundred different directions. And she was being pulled along, too, helpless.

Ingrid's vision swam--she swore she saw Byleth slitting Alfric's throat, swore she saw Alfric gurgle pathetically on the floor. But she blinked, and the image left. Byleth had tossed the man roughly at her feet, where he groveled rather pitifully. The words fell on deaf ears. Ingrid could not begin to parse what he said; her mind was a thousand miles away, trying and failing to process what she saw. It was Byleth's voice that snapped her out of it.

"It's not my mercy you fall at, it is hers." Their tone was all cold efficiency, even disgust at his behaviour. How quickly it changed! How quickly he went from cool, calm and controlled to falling apart and sniveling. It disgusted Ingrid too, his lack of honour.

She blinked again, forced herself to focus on the man at her feet as the world came rushing back. She took a step away, not wanting to be anywhere near him. Byleth at her back was no less comforting. Her head ached, swam thick with confusion.

"You should thank her, my lord." With that, Byleth left the longhouse, looking very worn.

"You promise to let me keep my life, then?" Alfric pleaded. Blond hair fell into his eyes, and somehow he managed to look greasier than before.

She had to swallow before she spoke. Surely last night still held her in it's thrall, despite their conversation last afternoon. Surely that, coupled with her exhaustion, was the reason why she felt so damn out of it.

"You'll keep it so long as we have no reason to come back here." She said finally, words clumsy on her tongue. Though what would stop him from running to other Faerghus nobles was beyond her. Not that Dimitri and the others needed more reason to continue their war with Adrestia. She was merely glad he didn't seem to recognize her, if he even could. Without another look at the despicable man, Ingrid walked numbly out of the longhouse.

Byleth waited outside by their horses. A hand rested on Rowan's neck as he nibbled at the base of a tree. They stared off into the distance, still looking incredibly tired.

"Where to now?" They asked. It took a moment for the information to register with Ingrid.

"Garreg Mach, I suppose."

"Aren't you looking for someone?"

"I could spend months scouring Fódlan for her. Best not to keep Her Majesty waiting." Besides, she was obligated by a million invisible forces to return. And a promise, one she made to Dorothea just before she left the Monastery with Byleth.

"As you wish." Byleth inclined their head, then swung up on Rowan with more grace than Ingrid could muster. They left Torsten, and Alfric, behind them at last. The townsfolk bustled about, none the wiser. 

"What's going to happen to him?" Ingrid asked after a while, though in her heart she feared she didn't want to know.

"He'll die, probably." Byleth didn't waste a beat. "Hubert will no doubt send someone here." The whole trip felt pointless, a waste of time and resources.

"Then why did we even bother? If Alfric will die anyway?" She couldn't hide the bite in her voice, nor the anger and frustration. Byleth's shoulders slumped, the only sign of emotion from them.

"It's a show of strength." That nothing would go unnoticed, not even the tiniest itch. A pissing match, essentially. "Also, to see how the border is faring. Unfortunately, there is only so much attention Edelgard can spare."

"Do you remember the farms on our way to Somerled?" Byleth continued.

"The ones razed to the ground."

"Yes." Then a rueful shake of their head, green hair flipping about their shoulders."Had no idea that had even happened."

Ingrid wagered it would be hard to keep tabs on the smaller villages and towns, so far away from the capital as they were. Especially places that didn't know more than what lay within their own borders. She had nothing to say to that. A strange feeling still tickled the back of her mind. A forgotten memory, or a stray thought she wanted to pick back up but slipped between her fingers every time she tried to collect it. The whole thing had her feeling uneasy, though she could hardly say why.

Maybe it was the entire journey out here, and the journey waiting for them on their way back. Maybe it was men like Alfric getting away with too much, or the people suffering directly at the hands of the forsaken war she fought. 

There was one thing she was happy for, and the thought kept her going even when she wanted to stop. Any other time she might have smiled, but it did make her heart feel that much lighter. She had a promise to keep to Dorothea, and she was going to honour it.


	6. When the Nights Get Long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ingrid returns, and receives terrible news. At least she has Dorothea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i took some liberties with the layout of the infirmary as it is in-game and added a room to it. 
> 
> happy new year to new readers and old alike. thank you everyone for your patience, your support and your interest as it means so very much to me. i wanted to add more to this chapter, but i felt a desire to update my fic given the amount of time between now and since i last updated. plus, this is a much needed narrative break given what is going to happen next. buckle up.
> 
> as always, you can find me on twitter @ verytinysammy. please come say hi!

Everything felt different, despite nothing having changed at all. After a good bath, Ingrid felt more human than she had in a week and some change. And it was a marvel using warm water instead of a stream or a river bed.

Ingrid and Byleth returned from their journey late last night, scarring the guards on nightwatch duty in the process. She returned to her dorm, stripped off her armour, and promptly fell into a dreamless slumber. Ingrid woke more tired than she was when going to bed, to hurried knocking on her door.

It was Hubert, urging her to head to the audience chamber for her debriefing. Byleth and Edelgard were already there, waiting. Of course. Once again, she was the one holding things up.

She cared little for debriefing and more for seeing Dorothea again. Ingrid told herself it was only to hold true to her promise she made to her. Surely it wasn’t a crime to want to see a friend again, not when one spent the better part of a week (and then some) surrounded by enemies.

Ingrid arrived at the audience chamber a little breathless, striding in wearing a light blue cotton shirt, and a pair of trousers. Hubert, Byleth and Edelgard gathered by the throne. Byleth stood still, head bowed as they murmured one thing or another to the Emperor. They did not wear their half-cape, she noticed, though they kept the loose-fitting top, and dark riding pants tucked into leather boots. Something glinted off the fabric folded up on their stump: a brooch in the shape of an eagle.

Edelgard spotted her first, if Ingrid’s heavy steps didn’t give her away. She gave a curt nod, and Byleth’s eyes slid off the Emperor and to her. She fought the urge to shiver under the gaze which bordered on cold. Hubert’s matching stare didn’t help matters.

Edelgard had her arms clasped behind her back as she stood at attention in her red armour, appraising both Ingrid and Byleth with her violet eyes. The two of them soon fell into a brief recap of the situation, of Alfric and Somerled and Torsten. All the while, Edelgard remained impassive but Ingrid had the suspicion she was weighing them both up. It came to a close, with Byleth giving a quick bow before leaving.

It was just her, and the Emperor and her faithful shadow. Ingrid could think of other places she’d rather be. Like the dungeon, for starters. She gave a nod, then turned on her heel and began walking.

"A word, Ingrid?" Edelgard's voice was soft, meant for her ears only. Ingrid halted at the mouth of the audience chamber, wanting anything to continue walking but she was sure something so trivial would be considered treason. Or close to it. So she stopped, and turned. Hubert stood a half-foot behind her, towering above her Majesty, golden eye peeking out from behind a fringe of black hair. Ingrid slid her gaze from him, to Edelgard and made an attempt at a curtsy.

"Your Majesty," She said, her words clipped and to the point. She remained respectful above all else. Edelgard murmured something to Hubert, who hesitated before taking his leave, though not too far off. He slipped into the office just to the right of them.

"I wanted to thank you,"

Ingrid balked at the notion, recovered quickly as she stammered out a, "No need to, Your Majesty."

A beat and then, "I'm merely doing what is asked of me. My allegiance is with you now, no matter how much it may pain me." And it did, every day waking up in Garreg Mach like poking an open wound. A wound that refused to heal and seemed content to fester. Edelgard made an amused sound, even smiled at Ingrid who couldn't help but bristle at the condescension.

"Lesser men would have sooner fell upon their own blades." She said.

_And kept their honour while they were at it._ How Ingrid ached to throw those words in the Emperor's face. Yet what little she had of her honour and nobility forbade her. Sometimes it felt like she had nothing left but her character, and in recent days that left much to be desired.

Ingrid made her hands into fists, clenched and unclenched as she floundered for an appropriate response. Was she supposed to take her words as a compliment? It didn't soften the blow of selling out either way. Ingrid knew her place in this war, and she paid the price for it on the daily. Edelgard need not remind her.

"Are they lesser for staying true to their King and Country?" She all but spat. "For dying for something they believe in?" _For being better than I ever could be?_

"I would argue there is wisdom in seeing the value of one's life." But her words were close to kind, and again Ingrid was faced with the fact she was hasty if not rude in her assumptions. "That there is value in yours. Even if you find yourself in a place you hate, working for people you hate more."

"Surely you did not want to debate philosophy." Deflection was all she had left, aside from laying herself bare for a woman she did not trust. No matter how true her words were.

"Forgive me, I got carried away." Edelgard sighed. "I felt it necessary to let you know your deeds are not going unnoticed."

"Then you have my thanks." Ingrid made to leave.

"One more thing."

Ingrid grit her teeth, took a breath, turned on her heel. She did not speak, only looked at the Emperor expectantly.

"Do you wish to fly again?" Edelgard stepped towards her, as if she meant to walk the halls with Ingrid. "Or, I should be asking if you miss it."

The question gave her pause, had her growing thoughtful. She did, and she didn't. What she missed most was Kyphon, her steed of almost a decade. The sheer freedom one was granted while in the air, so high above everyone--and everything--else. The offer hinted at in Edelgard's words curdled in the pit of her stomach. A gift, and for what? She wanted nothing from her. She would take nothing from her. She tore her eyes away from Edelgard's resplendent crimson armour, throwing her gaze to the stone flooring.

"No, Your Majesty." Lying was never something she did often. Lately, it'd been easier to do. Mostly to herself, rarer still to others.

"That's too bad." Disappointment flashed across Edelgard's fine features, but it was quickly reigned in. A curious thing, that. "There just so happens to be a pegasus in the stables in need of a rider."

"Yes, that is too bad." Ingrid said. Her mind snapped to thoughts of Galatea County, threatened to tumble out of her mouth if she were not careful. "I have a question, Your Majesty. If I may?"

"By all means, Ingrid." Edelgard gave a nod of her head, the light catching her horned crown.

"What became of my home?" Did she make the right choice? Did she save them like she had hoped by becoming a turncoat? What of her father? A bitter hollowness grew in her chest, and she swallowed down the regret threatening to choke her. Ingrid held her hands behind her back, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her wrist. Fear stopped her from asking weeks earlier, afraid of whatever answer she might have received.

"Ah," The noise was quiet, thoughtful. "The Empire sent aid, and a dignitary to oversee the governing of the county." Edelgard paused; she had more to add but held back. Ingrid met her stare for stare, gritting her teeth all the while.

"I... assumed as much." Ingrid said flatly. A maelstrom formed in the core of her, dark and terrible.

"There was another matter I wanted to share with you, as well." Edelgard handled her much like she would a piece of glass, and she teetered on the edge of news Ingrid knew was a long time coming. Ingrid remained silent, focusing instead on the storm she had trouble handling inside of her.

"Your father... he..." Edelgard struggled with the words, that much was obvious.

"He died." Ingrid finished for her. The maelstrom reached its zenith, and she wanted to howl with rage, with grief. Her eyes dropped to the floor, blinking moisture away. She ached for the ground to open up and swallow her whole, it would be easier to deal with than crying in front of this woman.

"I'm sorry, Ingrid." She said. "But we musn't let anguish overwhelm us." Her hand raised up, poised to pat her on the arm in some insipid display of comfort. She must have seen the storm raging on Ingrid's face for her hand fell back by her leg.

Ingrid knew, somewhere deep down, that her father was dying a slow death; he must have died hating her. Yet she wasn't sure what was worse: never being able to say goodbye to him, or her father dying with the knowledge his only child sold them all out in the name of survival.

Better to have died defending what was hers. Too late to go back now.  
The air in the audience chamber grew hard to breath, Ingrid could feel the pressure building in her chest. With burning eyes, she turned on her heel and strode out without another word. Speaking would betray her, give away too much and she had little else to give.

Edelgard said something, but the maelstrom inside of her refused to quiet; the raging in her mind had the words falling on deaf ears. Ingrid kept her stride as even as she could, marching for her dorm before the storm escaped completely.

Backhanded compliments and ill-gotten gifts, promises of being able to fly again, were almost too much. Not to mention the desire to tell Edelgard just where she could shove those words. She knew her place, and holding her tongue was paramount to keeping the peace; she could not speak freely like she once could with Dimitri. With Edelgard, she suspected, one had to know where they stood and that was almost always beneath her.

The news about her father, while not surprising, still cut her deeply.

There was something so unjust about being robbed of her goodbye to him, what little good it would have done anyway. She owed him that much, and goddess knew how bitter he must have been in the end. Maybe it was a mercy, in some twisted way, that she never got to.

Garreg Mach became a blur of people and stone, in no small part due to the tears she refused to acknowledge. Scrubbing a hand roughly across her eyes didn't help. It certainly didn't help her pride any.

Any other time, and Ingrid might have appreciated the weather. The bright mid-morning sun seemed an affront to her sour mood, the fresh mountain air anathema. She pressed on, past the gardens and it's beautiful gazebo.

Ingrid swore she spotted Dorothea and Petra from the corner of her eye, but said nothing to them on her steadfast march to her room. The sight of Dorothea was too much to bear. Especially right then, when she stood on the precipice of falling apart.

At last, the dorms came into view. She kept her head held low, wanting nothing to do with anyone else.

The quiet refuge of her room seemed the next best thing to sacred. With a faint click, the door closed behind her, and Ingrid stopped fighting the maelstrom raging inside of her. Crying felt foreign, made her feel weak, but she couldn’t stop it all the same. She sat heavily on the edge of her bed, pressed the heel of her palms into her eyes as if it’d stop the burning, or the way sobs wracked her. If anything, it only served to make it worse. Sitting became an arduous task, and Ingrid let gravity lay her body down on the worn mattress. Sleep sneaked up on her soon enough.

A soft knock sounded on her door. Ingrid hand't known she fell asleep until she opened her eyes to darkness. The knock didn't sound like Byleth's, or Hubert's. She rose to her feet as she told whomever waited on the other side to hold on.

Ingrid padded in the dimness, stood in front of the door, took a steadying breath before opening it. It felt like a minute ago that she had laid on her bed sobbing like a broken-hearted maiden.

Dorothea stood before her in that low-cut red dress of hers, lantern in hand and face lit up in orange light. Ingrid stood still for a moment, a part of her drinking in the sight of Dorothea, a part of her hoping she didn’t look the mess she felt. Carefully, she cleared her throat.

“Dorothea,” She even attempted a smile.

“Ingrid,” Dorothea was gracious enough to look past the pantomime-smile. “I saw you earlier when I was sharing tea with Petra but…” Her voice trailed off then, her eyes wandering past Ingrid and into the darkness of her room. She said nothing of it, despite everything about her body language suggesting otherwise; the way she held herself, carefully poised, shoulders tight, eyes tighter, begging to ask questions.

“Needless to say, I saw the look on your face and thought better of asking you to join us.” Dorothea added, lingering at the threshold of Ingrid’s dorm room with uncharacteristic uncertainty. “But that didn’t stop me from worrying after you.”

The concern ebbed out of Dorothea’s words, washing over Ingrid with something close to shame. To have made her worry so was not her intention, nor did she mean for their reunion after her mission with Byleth to be like this: awkward, a shade away from bitter. A familiar pain crept into her lower jaw, and she realized she had begun to grind her teeth.

“You flatter me,” She intoned rather dully, casting her gaze away from Dorothea’s splendour to the floor. “To worry after me so.”

“Oh, please,” Dorothea said, a bit of her old self creeping back in. The light continued to dance across her features, half shrouded in darkness, the other in stark relief. Her eyes sparkled with a liveliness Ingrid found herself adoring. “No need to be so formal with me, not anymore.”

“I… suppose you’ve got a point.” She offered feebly.

“Come, why don’t we see about getting a warm drink.” Before Ingrid could ready a rebuttal, Dorothea had her hand around her arm, urging her to wander out of the stifling darkness of her dorm.

Dorothea looped her arm in Ingrid’s, and she was more than happy to let the woman take charge. The warmth of her body next to Ingrid’s was a welcome respite to the chill in the air. Besides, her mind felt a million miles away in that moment, and it became a task to focus on the present. All the while, Dorothea happily filled the silence with talk of all that happened while she and Byleth were away. Active deployment had oddly came to a standstill (save for the odd border skirmish, and squelching rebellion in the newly conquered Leicester Alliance lands), Edelgard no doubt mounting up for a larger incursion on the Silver Maiden, the final frontier to forcing the Kingdom to heel.

Perhaps it was a small mercy her father had passed before he could watch the Kingdom crumble beneath Edelgard’s might.

Not once did Dorothea remark on Ingrid’s quietness, and for that she was glad.

The infirmary was a study in brightness compared to the way night shrouded the grounds of Garreg Mach. And blessedly, Maneula was busy elsewhere, leaving them to their devices in the small room just off the infirmary proper. Easier that way for Dorothea and Manuela to take care of their charges if they lived--more or less--right beside them. That night, however, there were no patients.

Ingrid was sat at a small circular table. She traced patterns in the wood grain as Dorothea busied herself with a kettle and what appeared to be a burner of some sort. Once more her sonorous voice filled the room, and it was a balm all its own just to listen to her talk. Made it harder to fixate on her father’s death.

“Though if I may be so bold, what’s got you in such a funk?” A faint clink interrupted Ingrid’s idle tracing. Ingrid, forced back to the present by the offering of fragrant Bergamot tea, stared up at Dorothea, and blinked before she collected herself. Dorothea took a seat opposite her, with her own cup.

Her mouth worked uselessly to form words that wouldn’t come. How did one just blithely say, ‘I found out second-hand my father died’?

“Take your time.” Dorothea reached over and placed a hand upon her arm, the thumb stroking the exposed skin. A year, a century, an eon passed before Ingrid felt ready to try speaking.

“I received news of my father,” Ingrid started, her words stiff, halting. She wanted desperately to keep everything in order, to not fall apart at the seams. Not in front of Dorothea. “He--he died.” Her voice broke at the end, forcing her to clamp her mouth shut. All the better to keep the emotion inside. Ingrid swallowed thickly, removing her focus off of Dorothea and to the cup in front of her. Steam rose in soft wafts, the heat of it tickling her nose.

“Oh, Ingrid, I’m so sorry.” The thumb on her arm stilled, and Dorothea removed her hand. It felt a loss to have it gone from her skin. Ingrid’s vision began to blur, and she cursed her inability to keep it together. (Why did she have to be so weak?) Blinking rapidly, she made sure to look anywhere but the woman in front of her.

“It was a long time coming.” Her words came out waterlogged. Ingrid tried to smile, but she was sure it came out more of a grimace. She had to drop her gaze again, the concern written on Dorothea’s face became too much to bear on top of it all. "My father had been ill for quite some time." It wasn't enough to be stuck here. It wasn't enough her father died, or her loyalty to her country was so easily bought, but now she had to cry in front of someone she--she what? Liked? Somehow that wasn’t the word.

“I never knew.” Dorothea said after a pause. Emotion filled her tone, and for a long moment neither of them said anything else. Ingrid could only blink away fresh tears, jaw screaming at her to stop clenching so tightly. But it was either that or let the sobbing come again.

Dorothea rose from her chair. Ingrid only knew by the sound of the legs scraping against stone flooring. She scrubbed at her eyes fruitlessly, not noticing Dorothea crossing over to her. Wordlessly, she gathered Ingrid into her arms. The dam Ingrid spent the better half of an evening building crumbled. All pretense of dignity and strength she had were washed away in the face of her grief, became a farce in the wake of Dorothea’s comfort.

Numbly, she wrapped her own around Dorothea's middle, the warmth of her, the gentle smell of rose, enough to soothe the ragged edges of her pain. To be held by Dorothea felt a kindness, one she didn’t think she deserved, but one Dorothea visited upon her all the same.

Ingrid couldn’t say how long she cried for, only that she felt hollow at the end of it all. And a fool, for having Dorothea pick up the pieces. If any of it bothered her, she did a fine job of hiding it. 

Dorothea gathered Ingrid’s face in her hands and gently, softly, kissed her on the forehead. With her thumb, she brushed a tear away.

“Just stay here,” She said, just as soft and gentle as the kiss. “There’s a spare bed with Manuela away.” 

Being alone didn’t appeal to Ingrid anymore than leaving did. Propriety told her to refuse, but she couldn’t bring herself too. She gave a weak nod.


	7. pretend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dinner date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry

Morning had come softly, Ingrid waking to sunlight dancing on the back of her eyelids. She shifted on the small bed, blinked away the remainder of sleep. Last night came back to her in flickers of memory, wispy and fragmented. How the two of them spent the better half of the night pretending to drink tea, and talking.

Though what stood out to her the most was Dorothea, and the way she comforted her (cool hands smoothing away stray hairs from her brow; a sonorous voice, low and liliting, almost song-like; the warmth of her enough--at least for a night--to chase away the hurt). Any other time she'd have felt ashamed, but in that moment, too drawn out and empty to care, she didn't feel like anything. Raw and scrapped out, perhaps. But nothing else, nothing else at all.

Maybe it was a blessing Dorothea wasn't in the infirmary. (Easier than faking emotion, than faking that everything was all right and Dorothea didn’t need to worry.) She could tell only by the stillness of the room, the heavy silence. 

Ingrid lingered in the bed for a couple moments more before swinging her feet over the edge. Dust motes rode the sunbeams filtering through the generous windows, the white curtains doing little to block the light. Her eyes shifted from the windows, to the table where the two of them sat last night. A folded piece of paper lay on the table top, as if waiting for her.

She rose--stepping over the crumpled heap of her trousers--and crossed over, taking the note in her hands. It was lightly perfumed; lavender, the delicate scent unmistakable. Ingrid opened it, and read.

_My dear Ingrid,_

_I hate to leave you without a proper goodbye, but I unfortunately promised our wonderful Emperor that I would lend a hand in a matter or two. Ugly work, it is, but when Edie comes calling, who am I to ignore it?_

_Goddess knows you have your own duties to attend to in the meantime. At least know that you're in my thoughts all the same. Please come back tonight so we can share dinner. Don’t worry about bringing anything but yourself._

_Yours truly,  
Dorothea_

The last three sentences ran circuits in her head, close to a taunt, in part only because she felt undeserving. What had she done to garner Dorothea’s grace, much less her attention? Next to nothing, if she were being honest. Yet here it was, all the same, in stark honesty. Letting herself accept the words--and the meaning behind them--became another matter altogether. 

She stood for a moment, lingering in the faint warmth Dorothea’s words gave her before realizing she might want to put her pants back on.

On her way out of the infirmary, Ingrid was spotted by Petra, who grinned at the sight of her. Hastily, she shoved the note from Dorothea into her pocket, managed a brief smile (or what she hoped passed as one).

"I am on my way to the training grounds," Petra said, hand on hip. She had a short bow slung over one shoulder, and a quiver hanging at her waist. The brilliant morning sun bathed her in golden hues. Ingrid felt wretched in comparison, her body curiously sore and mind buzzing with a jumbled mess of thoughts she couldn't begin to parse. 

"You should join me. It is good for the body and mind." Petra added with a grin.

There would be no way Petra would have heard the news about Anders. This, in its own, odd way was a blessing. For a time, Ingrid could pretend everything was fine. As close to normal as it'd ever get during these horrible years of war.

"I'd love to," she said.

The training grounds were, unsurprisingly, busy. A group of soldiers ran through their drills to the left of the giant enclosure. A few here and there, ostensibly not with the soldiers given by the distance they kept, lunged at each other with a variety of weapons.

The sun beat down on them, the heat of it lessened by the chill of the encroaching autumn. 

Ingrid turned her attention away from the activity, and to Petra. On top of it all, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was being examined. Taken apart piece by piece. Surely the woman knew a hundred and one different ways to kill her. And that was just by hand alone, nevermind the bow, or the belt knife.

“Have you tried the bow and arrow before?” Petra’s penetrating gaze seemed to bore right through her.

“When I was young,” She gave Petra an awkward shrug, the memory of frigid winters spent in the courtyard of Galatea estate shooting arrow after pitiful arrow to little success. Her father, watching on with disappointment. “I never had the talent for it. Why do you ask?”

Ingrid had a thought, but she wanted Petra to confirm her suspicions before she stood there and assumed. Petra’s unwavering attention shifted from curious to predatory in a matter of seconds, eyes flicking from her bad leg and snapping back up again. In a span of moments she found Ingrid’s weak spot. One half-assed kick would send her on her back; they both knew.

“Your walk,” Petra said. Ingrid shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “I have noticed you are limping some of the time. Is it not smarter to deal with the enemy from afar so they don’t take advantage of your weakness?”

Just how noticable had it become? How much longer until someone she didn’t want to know figured it out?

“It’s not--” Ingrid had to stop herself short. The open honesty written all over Petra’s face told her that her trust wouldn’t be misplaced. She sighed. No need to raise her hackles when Petra meant no foul play. “You’re right, Petra.”

Admitting it didn’t make it sting any less.

“There is nothing wrong in the need to be changing the way you fight.”

Ingrid grew quiet for a moment.

“Have I told you I’m a terrible shot?” It bore repeating; Petra had her work cut out for her. She only smiled, and led Ingrid to the targets.

They spent almost two hours at the targets, Petra doing her best to retrain Ingrid on how to shoot, and Ingrid doing her best not to snap the short bow in half.

Either way, Ingrid felt a fool, and a child; Petra was patient--endlessly so--and seemingly more than happy to train her. Or, try to. Her corrections on Ingrid’s form were apt; adjusting her elbow so, advising Ingrid to shift her foot ever so slightly. The small things, as Ingrid was learning, made the difference. As did the wind, apparently. 

The smallest gust could throw your arrow wide, make you miss your mark and spell disaster. The trick, Petra informed her, lay not in shooting where you thought your mark was, but where they would be. Something, Ingrid noted dryly, a little lost on her in that moment considering what her mark was: a stationary target. 

Besides, the bulk of her shots went wide. The shots that did land on the target did so on the rim. Walking back and forth to retrieve the arrow set her leg to aching. 

“Told you I’m a terrible shot,” She groused, leaning down to pick the offending arrow up. That particular shot had _bounced_ off the rim, twirled in the air and stuck itself point down in the dirt. The laugh that erupted out of Petra at that was rough and hearty, though Ingrid could not find the humour to join her.

“With time, you might be hitting the target.” There was no criticism in her tone, something Ingrid didn’t want to find odd but did regardless. Still sore over her poor aim, she took a moment to swallow her pride.

“With your help, surely.”

“Just be remembering what I have told you today, and you should be hitting your marks soon.” Petra gave her goodbyes shortly afterwards, leaving Ingrid to her devices. 

By then, her patience had been whittled down, and she felt in need of a wash. Limping away from the groups of soldiers and hired blades, and out of the infirmary, she made her way towards her dorm. There was at least a wash basin she could use to freshen up.

In clean clothes, and having wiped off the morning’s sweat, Ingrid felt a little more human. She opts to head for the green house. Only to water the vegetables she’s planted, best to avoid dirt on her trousers and light blue cotton top.

The air in the greenhouse would have been humid, but instead it was only pleasantly warm. Ingrid grabbed a watering can, filled it and headed for the plot she and a librarian started. The square of soil and leafy buds were stashed in the far corner of the greenhouse.

There was something infinitely calming about the greenhouse and its heady warmth, the dusky smell of the plants, the soil. It helped to scour her mind free of thoughts, intrusive or otherwise. Let Ingrid breathe easy. (Ruminating on her father was par for the course, unfortunately even in the greenhouse, despite her best efforts to focus on other things.)

Behind her, the doors creak open but she didn’t bother to turn to see who it is. There are a good handful of people she’s come to know who gather there for one reason or another. For instance, a scholar who enjoys sketching the various flora in the green house, a soldier who admires the heleniums, and the librarian who helps her tend the plot of vegetables she’s started, all to name a few. 

The lettuce and onions and beets she had been tending had just started to bud. As pretty as flowers are, Ingrid isn’t one for growing something _useless_. Vegetables can be eaten, they have a use beyond just being pretty. Granted, Edelgard made sure the monastery did not go without food, but it never hurt to grow a little more. 

Ingrid hefted a watering can, damp with condensation, and began to douse the soil.

“So this is where you spend your time, huh?” Sylvain’s voice was unmistakable and booming in that small space. Despite herself, Ingrid jumped, water sloshing onto the floor, the toe of her boots. She found herself growing weary of people creeping up on her like that. Did they all meet in secret and hold wagers?

“You’re a hard woman to catch, you know.” Sylvain’s red hair bordered on unkempt, and if the light wasn’t playing tricks on her she’d wager he had a scruff of a couple day’s growth on his chin. He never could grow a beard, and it still held true.

“Funny, several weeks ago I recall trying to catch you.” Ingrid sat the watering can down at her feet.

“Look, that’s on me. I was busy and when I wasn’t busy--”

“You don’t need to make excuses. What’s done is done.” Ingrid said, crossing her arms. Dwelling on it would only serve to exacerbate her already tested patience, and have him double down on his poor alibis anyway.

“I was kinda hoping you’d say something like that.” At least Sylvain had the decency to grow sheepish. 

“Does this mean you’ll stop avoiding me?”

“I was never--” He stopped himself short, cheeks flushing a rosy shade of pink. “I mean--I just--” With an aggrieved sigh, Sylvain added, “Can we skip to the part where we get along again?”

“As soon as you live up to your offer of dinner.” Ingrid offered him a small smile. Learning to let things go was a constant process. Besides, out of the four of them, only they remained together now. (So much for promises.) He lit up then, in a burst of excitement not unlike him.

“What about tonight?”

It was Ingrid’s turn to colour in mild embarrassment. “I have a… prior engagement.” 

Sylvain wasted little time in commenting on that. His look reminded her of Petra’s expression not too long ago when sussing out her bad leg: slicing right to the core of it all.

“Wow,” He whistled, a low sound that seemed to bounce around the walls of the green house. “We’re in a middle of a war that threatens to tear apart Fódlan, and you’ve gone and found yourself a date. I’m loving your priorities.” His wink was a shade shy of salacious. 

Ingrid cleared her throat, suddenly aware of the sense he made and how that startled her. When Sylvain, of all people, made sense you knew there was a problem.

“Either way, I’ll need to give you a raincheck.” She said, desperate to shift the topic from her to anything else.

“Tomorrow, then.” His excitement didn't dim, and suddenly she was reminded of the boy he used to be. “Might as well grab happiness where you can find it. I expect details of this mystery date, though.” He clapped her on the shoulder before taking his leave. It was only Ingrid in the green house, with her meager vegetable plot. The buds looked a little pathetic, but it was something.

_Grab happiness where you can find it._ When did he start making sense, even sounding something close to wise? 

***  
Evening came as softly as the morning had. If Ingrid hadn’t been nervous before, she was in that moment. She told herself there was little to be _nervous_ about, that she knew Dorothea and ostensibly nothing had changed between them. 

Why her heart hammered beneath her ribs was beyond her. Why she felt the need to make an excuse not to show was beyond her. Why she was considering it in the first place doubly so. Nerves made her legs feel like jelly. Nerves had her feeling stupid.

And a voice in the back of her head told her it was selfish, that she was undeserving of whatever happiness she could find with Dorothea. (Another reminded her that Anders died disappointed.)

Ingrid took a breath, let it out slowly. She crossed the floor of her small dorm, smoothed out invisible wrinkles in her top before she admitted she was stalling. Then, she left.

The walk to the infirmary was lit by the light of the dying sun, all oranges and pastel purples. A chill hung in the air, but not enough to make Ingrid shiver. She’s been through worse in the northern climes of Fearghus.

In a matter of minutes, she arrived at the infirmary. Ingrid stood outside the door for what felt like an awkwardly long time before gathering herself and what little courage she had, and stepped inside.

Ingrid was greeted by warm light, and the smell of stew. Daphnel, if she wasn't wrong in her assumption. Unbidden memories of her lunch with Byleth come to mind, all those days ago. 

“Dorothea?” Ingrid called, standing at the threshold. Despite having been there the night before, the infirmary remained largely unfamiliar. The room off to the side--where Dorothea and Manuela lived--bustled with faint noise. 

“In here!” Came Dorothea’s response. Evidently, Manuela was still away. Ingrid wandered away from the door, and to the sound of Dorothea’s voice. The room was as she remembered: quaint, inviting and wondrously lived in.

Dorothea lit up at her arrival, giving Ingrid a smile and wrapping her up in a quick hug which she melted into. 

At least she managed to cooperate and return the hug with a squeeze of her own. There was something intrinsically comforting about touch, Ingrid knew, and she felt a loss when they parted.

“I know it's just food from the dining hall, but here the accommodations are a bit more _intimate_.” Dorothea said, leading Ingrid to the small table and ushering her to sit. 

Dorothea wore a red dress, with quarter sleeves and a plunging neckline. The necklace she wore seemed to accentuate it wonderfully (Ingrid, of course, did not stare, made a point not to). As always, she looked lovely.

“That doesn't matter to me,” Ingrid replied. “In my experience, company always makes food taste better.” They could have sat down to a meal of peas, and she would have still enjoyed it.

Last night returned to her in flashes. If Dorothea had felt awkward about any of what happened, she did a fine job of hiding it. Better than Ingrid was, at any rate. Sitting with her hands in her lap was the most she could do, worried if they were anywhere else they’d wander and tremble and betray her. 

“I’m inclined to agree,” Dorothea grew somber and added, “Plus, I thought you could use the company. Or, rather, _I_ would like your company and figured you wouldn’t mind mine.”

Perhaps she should have felt slighted, should have felt a consolation prize in hard times but she couldn’t bring herself to. Dorothea sat across from Ingrid, sincerity spilling out of her, that there was no way she meant to pity her. Or meant for Ingrid to feel that way.

“I truly do enjoy spending time with you.” Ingrid said, eyes focused anywhere but Dorothea. Hard to look at her then, as odd as that seemed. Her face felt hot all of a sudden. “It’s better than the alternative.”

“And what would that be?” Dorothea asked, leaning forward. The movement had her cleavage in full display, as if Dorothea meant for Ingrid to see. The very thought was preposterous, and quickly discarded.

Ingrid blinked, gathering her thoughts, measuring her words, before she said, “Most likely sitting alone in my room.” The picture she painted seemed pathetic, but the truth often was. Dorothea laughed, though Ingrid never meant what she said to be funny. 

“We can’t have that, can we?” She said.

“If I were to be honest, I would rather not be alone right now anyway.” Ingrid cleared her throat, shifting the topic from the uncomfortable truth, from her. “Besides, we’re here now, aren’t we?”

“I suppose things did work out in the end, didn’t they?” Dorothea mused, opting not to comment on Ingrid’s intense staring contest with her bowl. 

Ingrid lifted her gaze from the stew, to Dorothea. In a messed up way, things truly did work out in the end. Events drove them together again, just as they drove her and Mercedes apart. Maybe the two of them could see where it all lead.

Dorothea filled the silence with stories. Stories of past operas and productions, an undercoating of bitterness tinging the words; stories of Enbarr and where she grew up. Dorothea spoke of them with a familiar fondness--one Ingrid shared over flying, over Faerghus. Over the past, the way things used to be. A hard comfort, to dredge up things long since dead.

Ingrid had little to offer in return, besides her ear and several anecdotes of growing up in Galatea county. As harsh and unforgiving as it was, there was a savage beauty to the snowy mountains and tundras, especially at sunset. Words would never do it justice.

With dinner over, and everything tidied, the night wound to a close. The two of them stood at the door of the infirmary. Lingering, really. 

“Maybe when this is all over you can show me Enbarr.” Ingrid offered. Standing opposite Dorothea became an exercise in trying not to feel small and pitiful. Her very personality filled the room, and she had a way of drawing people to her very much like a sun and its gravity.

“That’s something I’ll hold you to, Ingrid.” She smiled softly, and tenderness filled her eyes. Then she cupped Ingrid's face in her hands, eyes bright, drifting down to her lips only to snap back up again.

Ingrid swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. She knew what Dorothea intended to do (what she wanted Dorothea to do). Dorothea closed the distance and kissed her, softly and slowly. It awoke in Ingrid a longing so deep it ached. Her eyes fluttered closed, forcing her mind blank, refusing to let herself question this and what it all meant. 

There would always be time for that later. Right now, there was only the two of them, in that empty infirmary. Together, they could pretend nothing else mattered at all.

"You have no idea how long I've waited to do that." Dorothea murmured, thumb brushing the edge of Ingrid's cheekbone.

"How long?" She breathed, too dumbstruck to say anything else. (And how long has she waited for Dorothea to kiss her?)

"Half a decade, at least." A chuckle, low and throaty, bubbled out of Dorothea.

"Was it worth the wait?" A corner of Ingrid's mouth quirked up in response. A rare moment of bravado, of flirty banter so unlike her usual commentary, she half-feared it fell flat. But Dorothea returned Ingrid's half-smile with a grin of her own.

"I'm not sure. Let me check again." 

She kissed her she kissed her she kissed her.

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like i need to state that ingrid's opinions on hubert dont match my own... any and all opinions therein are the characters and not mine...


End file.
